Scars Don't Fade
by LT1984
Summary: This is my take on Secret Empire and Deadpool's role in it. I started it right after Deadpool #31 and incorporated only bits and pieces of everything that has happened since. Same holds for the new Jessica Jones series. I also blend in elements from the Deadpool movie and the Jessica Jones Netflix series. Thanks to those of you have read. Reviews and thoughts would be appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

**Scars Don't Fade**

Prologue

 _Hello blank page my old friend_

 _I've come to stare at you again,_

 _Because an idea slightly creepy_

 _Left it's seeds while I was sleeping[Oooh, kinky];_

 _And the vision that was planted..._

Hey, stop that!

Stop what? You mean my soulful crooning?

I mean your caterwauling a Simon & Garfunkle classic. You want to get us sued?

"Caterwauling"? What are you from the Nineteenth Century? And I wouldn't worry about S&G suing you. They're too busy suing each other and, you know, being really old. BT Dubs, how freakin' old are you? You know that no one who reads this kind of stuff will get these references.

Me? How old are you? No, I really mean it. When you showed up in '91 I figured you were in your 20's so that makes us around the same age. But with the time travel and all the off-canon stuff its hard to tell. So really, how old are you? Inquiring minds, ya know.

Oh no. NONONONONO!...Not another retcon of my origin story. You think I don't have enough snakes in my head without you sending me back to the 70's to be bitten by a radioactive Jonathon Winters?

Now who's giving with the ancient references? Just be happy I don't slash you with Rhino.

 _Shudders_. Okay I give. But seriously what's up with this? You've never written a fic before.

Well, my testicularly-countenanced friend, you see I've been trying to write this paranormal romance but I just can't get it off the ground. I've got the set-up and some world-building and I've maneuvered the protagonists together but I just can't get the meet right...

So its just like your real life...

Hey! Well yeah, sort of, lately...

So you came to old DP for advice. Smart. See what you...

Uh, no. You're not the narrator of this little tale. It's from the female perspective.

OOOH female...Whoisit, whoisit? I hope its Psylocke. She's sooo hawt! And a badass with a Katana...and hawt...and...

Sorry, not Psylocke. I don't think you've met.

Some Mary Sue OC. That's lame dude. So you're really just a chick with a crush on the deformed sociopath with a heart of gold which only you can redeem. Ha!

Nope, I'm a dude. And no, I don't have a crush on you. And you're not a sociopath, at least not in canon. You're a schizophrenic with depression, anxiety and PTSD.

Aw, that's about the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me. So who's the chick? Does she have a big rack?

I think I'll just let you find out on your own. But you'll like her, she's a nice girl.

Motherfucker! If it's Big Bertha in all her poundage I swear I'll hunt you down and cut off...

Deadpool, I've always wanted to say this to you, Shaddup!

Now on with the fic.

A/N: All characters, except any OC's I may stick in, belong to Marvel and its parent company (Hail Giant Rodent!), not me. All song lyrics (except where noted) are parodies and not the originals, which are great while mine suck. So you can tell the difference. I don't own anything but ten fingers and a beat up laptop. If I did own Marvel there would be some changes, I tell you. Pink slips flyin' like confetti at Cap's parade. Starting with... oh wait...Hey there Mr. Alonso, Mr. Quesada (Deadpool says you sound tasty btw), Mr. Buckley; Don't change a thing on my account. Love it. I'm available to do novelizations. I could do Thor or Hawkeye. No? Maybe Antman and Wasp. How about Doorman? Still no. Okay then, don't sue me over this lighthearted little exercise in fandom, from which I derive no profit. Hey maybe I could work with you to turn Nick Fury into a transgender Filipino undocumented alien? Already in the works? Figures.

 **Chapter One**

So, this is what rock bottom looks like. I thought I knew. Husband gone, baby gone. Best friend wanted as a enemy of the state. Business in the toilet. But no, it seems if you claw your way beneath the the wretched floor of my life you find this - an after-hours pubic school building being used for self-help groups. Jeez, what am I doing? Do I really think I'll find answers here? If I wanted to step over winos on the stoop I could walk in and out of my apartment building. Or in and out of my office. At least I'm not still sleeping in the office. Now if I can just make rent for both next month.

Oh yeah, that's why I'm here - I'm desperate. I haven't worked steadily for months. When I'm not too depressed to get out of bed in the morning, I'm too hung-over. Damn it I'm a good PI. Its crap work sometimes, but not always. Sometimes, I do some good. And, I'm good at it.

That was enough to get me through the first few months after Luke took our baby and left. Then the world went sideways. Captain Freaking America is a Hydra fascist and Luke is in his Avenger goon squad. Carol is a fugitive, if she's even on the planet. So, I got no way to clear my name and no chance to see my baby. Long story short, I'm screwed. So I'm here with the rest of the losers.

Okay, door number one, Alcoholics Anonymous; door number two, Divorce Support Group. Which do I choose? Maybe the booze is the root of my problems. Hell, it takes a fifth of Kentucky's finest just to get to sleep at night. But without it I'd be a worse mess than I am now. Let's start small. DSG it is.

Wow, is that what I look like? These people look like rejects from The Walking Dead. Two cat ladies; three broke ex-hedge fund execs whose trophy wives have split; a couple of mousy housewives whose hubbies hit their mid-life crisis and opted for a sports car and a former "exotic" dancer. My quick reads of people aren't always 100% but they're usually real close. There's five, no six, guys who've never been married but show up at these things to mack on the sandwiches and coffee and hit on the desperate divorced women.

And who's this in the back with the hoodie pulled over his head hiding his face. I'd say he was hiding out in here to elude the cops but he doesn't seem tense. He seems very relaxed, like he's just taking it all in. Even with the hoodie I can tell he's got a great bod. Glad I can still notice that sort of thing, at least. His bearing has something military about it. Not the stick-up-his-ass cadet type; not the "I am the meanest, deadliest sumbitch in the valley" Marine type. No he's something different. Something more dangerous? So at ease, but he looks like he could be killing a guy in an instant. He's sitting where he has a view of the whole room and all the windows but can't be seen until someone is fully in his view. He's positioned in his chair so that both his hands are free and he can be up in a flash. If that bulge in his hoodie pocket isn't some kind of weapon I'll kiss She-Hulk.

Well, I'm not putting him at my back. I always hated sitting at the front of the class anyway. So, the seat in the back two rows across from Hoodie Guy it is.

Wow, get a load of this guy. He looks like The Rock swiped Mr. Rogers' sweater and ran in here to hold the meeting. He's not Luke big, but big. Maybe I do need this. I keep thinking about Luke like every five seconds. That can't be healthy.

"Alright folks, lets settle in and get started," The Rock booms. That's some deep voice. Not as deep as Luke's but...aw crap. The single guys make their way from the sandwich table near the window and circle up in seats surrounding the cat ladies and housewives. A couple of them look my way but my super death glare warns them off. No, wait, their gazes drifted past me to Hoodie Guy before they scampered off after easy prey. I turn to look at him and catch a glimpse of his face before he turns his head so its obscured by the hood. Does he look like Robert Downey, Jr.? And I just realized RD Jr. looks exactly like Tony Stark. How weird is that?

"For those of you who are new, this is the Divorce Support Group. Anyone looking for the Sex Addiction Support Group, they meet here on Wednesdays."

That draws a titter from the single hyena's club.

"I'm not kidding," says The Rock in a tone that quiets the crowd. "My name is Staggs," he continues in a slightly less intimidating tone. "I got a first name too, but nobody uses it, so just call me Staggs."

"You can call me Betty if I can call you Al," I hear in a low mutter that would reach only as far as my ears. So Hoodie Guy speaks. And makes old musical references.

"Remember, we're all free to express whatever we're feeling here. No judgments. So who's first. A mousy housewife in magenta sweater and brown slacks raises her hand and at a nod from The Rock/Staggs comes to the front to stand at the podium.

"My names Grace and my divorce just became final last month," she says in a high nasal voice that's all Brooklyn.

"Hi, Grace," everyone intones except me and Hoodie Guy.

Okay, this is killing me. I can't figure Hoodie Guy out. He doesn't participate in the group. That's not weird, neither do I. Several others don't either. A couple of the single guys get up and spew a load of bullshit that's supposed to attract the desperate divorcees. One of the hedge fund guys sheds real tears when he talks about only seeing his kids in the summers because his ex is moving to California. One of the cat ladies reports that there's a new man in her life. Of course he works at the animal shelter. I bet he was sent to her house to rescue...

"Probably sent to save your ninety-seven cats, all named Mr. Whiskers."

Holy shit. Did Hoodie Guy read my mind or is he as twisted as I am? Again, I'm the only one who heard it. Was that for my benefit?

At the break I'm ready to hit the door. Listening to the misery of others isn't really helping. It just reminds me of how much I've lost. I go to snag a sandwich. I'm pretty sure I haven't eaten today and Jim Beam on an empty stomach is a recipe for a hangover I don't need in the morning. Hoodie Guy is at the table. This is my chance to get a better look at him. I still can't read his story. I was about 98% right on the others, based on what they've shared so far. But on him I got nothing. I probably would have left in the middle of the first hour but some of his snarky comments were funny. Some were just weird, but entertaining. That doesn't fit with the dark, dangerous image he's projecting.

I make my way to the table and Hoodie guy is deconstructing and reassembling four sandwiches on his plate. He's removing some of the bread and all of the veggies to make a giant quadruple-decker hero. How's he think he's going to fit that thing in his mouth? I grab a turkey sandwich and stuff it in my pocket. I glance at Hoodie Guy before I turn to leave. He's grinning at me. I'm about to give him a side order of bitchy and leave when his face flickers. I mean its just for an instant. I almost missed it but it was there. Oh fuck, oh fuck! This is what I was worried about. It's SHIELD or HYDRA, or maybe they're the same thing now. They're following me. But how? I didn't even know I was coming here until I walked through the door. Doesn't matter; they're SHIELD (or HYDRA), they probably have a psychic monitoring everyone who's ever displayed a superpower. Maybe they placed agents in every room in the building as soon as I stepped over the first wino outside. Either way, I have to go, fast.

I turn and barrel out of the room, knocking over a hedge fund guy along the way. I hear Staggs say something to my back but I don't make out what it is. My mind is racing. Did Luke send them? Is this because of Danni? Are they tailing me, thinking Carol will make contact? What the hell do I do now? I had hoped to stay in the city and lay low until things settled down. Make some kind of peace with Luke so I could see our daughter, then come up with the rest of the plan. Now what? If I run I'll never see Danni again. I probably won't make it either. Where else can a freak like me blend in better than in New York? If I stay there's no way they won't find me again. Hell I have an office address listed in the Yellow Pages. Right now I just have to get away. Tomorrow I can think through the consequences and come up with a new plan. Hopefully.

I'm out the front door now. The wino who was on guard duty seems to have moved on to a new local. Maybe he sensed trouble coming. Maybe he was picked up by HYDRA as part of some inner city beautification program. Rounding up the homeless seems like a logical step for them. I'm on the sidewalk now and I'm running but I don't know where I'm running to. I don't hear footsteps behind me but I'm still afraid to turn around. The last thing I want is to be thrown into a van and taken for a ride.

I was hoping they would just forget about me. I was never much of a superhero anyway. I mean I'm strong, but not like Spiderman strong. I'm pretty fast but not anything special among the cape and spandex crowd. And I can fly, almost, sort of. Yeah, that's it. I duck into an alley and run about half-way down before I turn. No one entering the alley. I turn back to face the one of the buildings. Its about five stories shorter that the one on the other side but still about twenty-five floors. Maybe, if this is a good day. I back up against the far wall and take two quick steps forward. Then I leap. I can feel gravity pulling against me as I rise but an effort of my will pushes against it. Oh crap, I'm going to come up just short. How the hell do Carol and Storm make it look so easy.

I push harder. How? Don't ask me how. With my mind, sort of. I can see edge of the roof in front of me. There's a three foot wall around it. I can just make it. OOOOF! Oow! Oow! Damnfuckshit! Oow! I clip the wall with my shins which helps me stick a perfect ten face-plant onto the tar and cinder roof. Well, I'm not dead and I'm not sliding down the side of the building like a cartoon coyote. And I'm not going for a ride in a SHIELD van. So I guess its a win.

A mental inventory seems to indicate that nothing is broken. The right side of my face feels like the Punisher went after it with a cheese grater and my lip is split, but I'll live. Now I have to figure out what the hell is going on. I can do that, dammit. I'm a private investigator and a good one. Figuring things out is what I do. I have an office with my name on the door and everything. It says, ALIAS INVESTIGATIONS, JESSICA C. JONES-CAGE, PROPRIETOR.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 _When this old world starts fucking me around_

 _And people puke when they see my face_

 _I climb waaaay up to the top of the stairs (Fuck that's a long way)_

 _A peep on the hottie (?) I had to chase_

 _On the roof, it's still nasty as can be (well, it's New York)_

 _And now I really have to pee_

 _Let me tell you now (right off the roof)_

Uhm. That's the best you got?

Well, you're the one who couldn't come up with a song for this chapter. Besides, what's wrong with The Drifters' 1962 classic _Up on the Roof_?

I don't know. Somehow it just doesn't feel right. Let's face it, you're no Weird Al. Hell, you're not even Blind Al. I bet she could come up with a better parody than that, unless you've killed her. She hasn't been seen in years.

Oh, she's alive. Didn't you see my movie?

Yeah, but we're not really doing the movie canon.

Canon? What canon? You're fucking that up right and left. We're way into an AU by now.

Have you been reading ahead? I haven't started to fuck things up yet. That starts in this chapter.

Well, I've been bored. I mean seriously, what the fuck was I doing in a divorce support group with all those losers. Sheesh!

Your marriage did just kind of fall apart. Unless you're into being cuckolded by an undead blood-sucker, in which case I should have crossed you over with Twilight.

Don't you fucking dare. Motherfucker, I will slice you up. I don't want anything to do with those sparkly poofdas. And that scrawny little Kristen Stewart... well, she's kind of hot, especially now that she's a lesbian. Hey maybe you're on to something. How about we have Bella meet Domino and they get a hotel room and they order pizza and I'm the delivery guy and ….

Uh, no. But keep working on those ideas. You never know when I'll get writer's block again.

I sit on the roof with my knees pulled up to my chest, leaning against the parapet. Yeah, that's what the wall around the top of a roof is called. I can think of that, but I can't think of how to find out whose tracking me and how to make them stop.

Ugh! Maybe all the booze is slowing my mental processes. I'm exhausted, I'm beat up and I'm hungry. I reach into my pocket for the sandwich. It's a little squished but, hey, its a turkey sandwich. How damaged can it be? I peel back the slightly soggy smashed bread to reveal a squished tomato, a wilted piece of lettuce and enough mayonnaise to sunscreen the Hulk. Ugh!

"Nice night for a picnic. Love the view. But I think we could do a little better in the comestibles department."

The voice is close and I whip my head to the left to see Hoodie Guy step out from behind a vent fan. How the hell did he get up here? I didn't hear a thing. If he's going to shoot me I'm dead, so I freeze.

"I know this great little Slovakian place that serves great bryndzove halushky. Really filling. Comfort food, ya know. Just the thing after a brisk run through the city and a twenty story (almost) leap."

"It was at least twenty-five and I made it just fine," my defensive gene kicks in, despite the abject terror which threaten to empty the contents of my stomach in spite of the fact that it's already empty. Good thing, too. I do not want to go down with puke all over me.

"Sure you did. And that road rash all over your face is really just a beauty mark."

He's mocking me. He's mocking me. That's good; I can use that. Rage. I am not some helpless girl. I am Jessica Fucking Jones. I haven't been helpless since... No, don't go there. No good comes from those memories.

I stand up casually. "Speaking of faces, what's up with yours?" I edge closer. If he's got a weapon, distance is his ally.

"What'a you mean, 'what's up with my face'?" He seems genuinely defensive. "It's a perfectly good face."

"I saw it flicker, asshole. I know its not your real face. So who are you working for? SHIELD? HYDRA? AIM?" I take a step closer. We're maybe twelve feet apart now.

"AIM?! Do I look like a beekeeper?" Again he seems actually offended. "I've never put on any of those costumes. Well, maybe the HYDRA one, one time. But that was to bust a couple of my buds out of one of their bases. And..., well maybe one other time. But that was for Happy-Funtime-Grownup-Roleplay, so that doesn't count."

Oh my God! What if he's not with any of them? What if he's just a whack-job? I am not getting raped and killed, or killed and raped, by some delusional fanboy ninja. I take two more slow steps. Seven feet. Almost.

"I saw it flicker. I know that's not your real face," I repeat it casually with slight emphasis, as I take one more step. Four, maybe five feet. That will have to do, as Hoodie Guy is starting to get agitated.

"Fucking WeasleMotherfuckershithead! He promised he had the glitches worked out. I'm going to slice his stomach open and fill it full of kale. Then I'm going to sew him back up and wait for the nuclear reaction between the vegetable and all the beer and Hot Pockets in his system! Hey, speaking of Hot Pockets, you given any more thought to getting some food? If you're not into Slovakian, I know an all-night food truck with great carne asada."

"Didn't you eat your three foot tall sandwich before you chased me?" Weight on my back foot. Round house kick to the face, then I'll leap over the edge. Oh shit, I'm going to jump off the building.

"I ate it on the way, but that was ages ago and I didn't chase you. I followed you. There's a difference." His head rises slightly and he cocks an ear. This is my chance.

"Down!" he screams and he's on top of me before I have a chance to process that a dart just whizzed past my face. Again, I'm flat out on the cinder roof, this time on my back with a mad man on top of me. I can't get my breath to scream but he's already pulling me up.

"Stay in front of me and keep your head down," he screams as another dart whizzes past. Hoodie Guy has produced a gun from his pocket and is firing blindly over his shoulder. The other hand has an iron grip on my upper arm and he's steering me toward a fire door on the roof.

I hear a soft 'thunk'. "Owie! Owie! Ooh that stings!" shouts my would-be savior.

We make it to the door and I rip it open with my free hand in spite of the deadbolt. We duck inside and Hoodie Guy slams it shut. As he does, I catch a glimpse of our attacker. I recognize the costume. It's fucking Bullseye. Shit! Whose next? Punisher? Man-Thing?

The door is metal and I hear another dart clang against the outside.

There's a short piece of rebar leaning against the wall and I wrap it around the spring arm that automatically closes the door.

"You think that will hold him?" I ask my companion in a wheeze, still trying to take in a full breath.

Nooo," Hoodie Guy drawls. "But we have a minute to catch a breath. Old Bullshit will want to study the situation before deciding whether to fill the door with armor piercing rounds or just blow it off the hinges with semtex. Really it comes down to whether they're here to take you in, or take you down."

So much to process. Where do I start.

"They? Who's They?" It comes out rough and he blinks.

"They, Them, the Men-In-Black. Whoever you've pissed off. Does it really matter right now?"

"It might," sounding much more calm than I am. "How are you so sure they're after me and not you?"

"With tranq darts? Bullsy's not dumb enough to come after me with tranq darts. Speaking of which could you...? Would you mind just..." He's turning his back toward me and I have an impulse to clobber him over the head and run like hell. But, he may have just saved my life and I may still need him. I sure as hell need answers and he may be able to give them to me.

He turns fully and there it is. It looks like a lawn dart grafted to an Epipen. Its huge. There must have been enough tranquilizer in there for a rhino. Unless there wasn't. This could be a ploy to get me to trust this guy. Wow, paranoia is not as much fun as it seems. Especially when they really are out to get you. I pluck the dart out and stare at it blankly, still trying to come to a conclusion.

"Oooo, that's better. I think our time's about up," Hoodie Guy says. "We really should be..."

"Wade? I know its you Wade." The voice, surprisingly high and melodic, comes from beyond the door. "What are you doing, Wade? This ain't your fight. We got our orders and you ain't going to stand in our way. I'm going to blow the door now and I want you to move the girl around the side so she don't get hit with any flying hinges or nuthin'. Then your going to hand her over to us and go about your business."

"I don't think so Bullpatty. We both know how this is going to end and it won't be good for you," Hoodie Guy calls back. But now he's dropped the hood revealing a red and black full head mask with weird white eyes. I swear he winks at me. "You interrupted my date night and I don't take that lightly."

"What? Its not a date...," I realized how ridiculous it sounds under the circumstance as the words leave my mouth and the tumblers start to fall into place. The mask, the ability to sneak up on me on top of a twenty-five story building, the ability to shake off a butt-load of tranquilizer. Its Deadpool, Fucking Deadpool. How the hell did I get mixed up with him? And wait, isn't he one of Captain Fascist's attack dogs too. Maybe this is a trap. I start to back away.

He winks at me again. How does he do that through the mask? He leans his ear next to the door then steps back to appraise it. Then, in one quick motion, he draws an eighteen inch K-bar knife from his boot and slams it through the door just next to one of the hinges.

There's a primal scream from outside. "Aww! Fuck you Wade! You damn near sliced off my hand. That's it. I'm filling you both full of lead and Cap can have the pieces."

"Time to go Sweet Cheeks," Hoodie Guy nee' Deadpool says, grabbing my arm and launching us both down the stairs.

It takes all my abilities not to be dragged off my feet as we hurtle down the stairs, hitting about every fourth or fifth one. Five floors down Deadpool comes to a sudden stop and I slam into his back. He doesn't budge.

"Trouble coming up from the ground," he says opening a hallway door and pulling me through. In the distance I can hear footstep on the stairs, a lot of them; then, from the roof, a muffled explosion. We run to the middle of the hallway and I see a bank of elevators.

"I've got an idea. You're not going to like it," Deadpool says, prying the door of the nearest elevator open with his K-bar.

We look inside the elevator shaft. Its dark both up and down but I think I can make out the car at the bottom.

"Now what, genius," I ask, staring down the shaft. "We could have just called the car."

"We're not getting trapped in an elevator," Deadpool replies. "That's strictly an amateur move. I got something better in mind. Hang on."

With that he grabs me around the waist and hurls us into the elevator shaft. I'm proud of the fact that I don't scream but really I don't have time. I'm bracing myself for a horrible crash at the bottom but then, with a jerk, our fall begins to slow. I look up and see a gloved hand clutching the elevator cable, leather and then metallic sparks flying from the palm. After ten floors or so the sparks stop flying and I can smell an odor disconcertingly like bacon frying. A glance at the merc's face seems to show a grimace. I reach out with my free hand and grab the cable behind Deadpool's neck, adding my strength to his. It burns but we slow pretty fast now.

Our descent stops one floor above the elevator car. "This is our stop, Sugarlips," he says next to my ear. With that he swings me back then forward and hurls me toward the elevator door. I land on the tiny ledge, wobbling, my hands flailing about for a hold. I find one on the frame of the door just before I fall backward. Then Deadpool is beside me, the K-bar in his hand again. He pries the door open and sticks his head out looking deliberately up and down the hallway. We race to our right past nondescript office doors and down one more flight of stairs.

The lobby is dimly lit with security lights. There is a small desk near the door. Bench seating and fake potted plants make up the decor. At first I think the lobby is deserted and I start for the front door only to be yanked to a stop. Deadpool shakes his head when I glare back at him and he places a finger to his mask, where his lips would be. He points to the wall on the left and I see a figure partially obscured by a large plant.

Deadpool prances out of the stairwell on tippy-toes and comes up behind the lone sentinel, his hands held up in front like T-Rex arms. Then, in one swift motion, the man's head is twisted around in an anatomically unhealthy fashion and he slumps to the floor. Deadpool turns and waves me out and I dash across the lobby floor as quietly as my Doc Martens will allow. I glance down at the lookout and I am affected by how normal the guy looks: clean shaven, with short well cut brown hair. He's wearing black paramilitary garb with a small HYDRA patch on the shoulder. At least Captain Asshat has gotten rid of the green and yellow jumpsuits.

Outside, the street looks surprisingly normal. This is not a good part of the city but one effect of the New Order is that the street people have been driven further into the slums at night and the sidewalks are nearly empty. Across the way a large black woman walks along with a couple of bags of groceries. A couple of teenagers are joking and pushing each other back and forth a block to our right. We turn in their direction and walk quickly. Deadpool has his hood back up but his mask is now visible inside. I should ditch him. He's nuts and he's dangerous. Sure, he probably saved my life but its at least possible he put it in danger to begin with. Still, I need answers and he may be able to give them to me. If he doesn't get me killed or drive me out of my head first. Plus, if we run into Bullseye again I really don't want to have to deal with him alone. So, I'll stick with him, for now.

Half way down the block I notice and old man, bent over to pick up an old stylish cane, a heavy cloak pulled up against the cold. As we pass, a black clad figure steps out from the ally directly in our path. He's smiling like a fucking maniac. Which he is. Bullseye. Deadpool straightens and reaches into his hoodie pocket as I hear a "shwoosh". A damn metal shaft explodes through the front of his fucking skull with a pop and Deadpool sways before dropping to his knees, blood and brain matter leaking from his wound.

I turn to find the guy I had taken for an old man is actually a big guy wearing a skull mask. The cloak billows out from his body revealing gold and silver body armor over dark blue spandex. I can't tell anything about his expression behind the mask but his body language is relaxed. He holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Now don't get excited Ms. Cage. Wade will be good as new in no time. Well, as good as it gets for Wade, anyway."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 _Drivin' that cane,_

 _Right through my brain,_

 _Deadpool better watch your spleen;_

 _Bullseye ahead,_

 _Taskmaster behind,_

 _And, you know this steel shank just crossed my mind;_

Dude, seriously! You have to stop doing that!

What are you worried about now? You think the ghost of Jerry Garcia is going to sue?

No, but the rest of them are still alive. And, you've got to remember that the average age the people who might read and review this is like 14. No one is going to get the 70's song references. Don't you know anything current?

 _Percocets, molly, Percocets  
Percocets, molly, Percocets  
Rep the set, gotta rep the set  
Chase a check, never chase a bitch  
Mask on, fuck it, mask off  
Mask on, fuck it, mask off  
Percocets, molly, Percocets  
Chase a check, never chase a bitch  
Don't chase no bitches _

Ugh! Don't. Rap. Again. Ever! And that's not a parody. It's the actual lyrics. Don't do that.

Easy, Typer Guy. It's just a sample. Like what rappers do all the time. You wanted me to be current. What's more current than The Future, baby?

It's not "The Future", it Future. And we still don't own that, he does. Just go back to the ancient songs we both know and love. Yes?

I don't know. I think this could be my new theme song. It's got everything I love and admire: money, painkillers and bitc...

Stop! I don't care what hip-hop artist do, I don't refer to females in general as bitches. Maybe its because I'm old, but I'm just not OK with that.

You would prefer some "Wang, Dang Sweet Poontang"? Remember, I know what's on your Spotify playlist. Sooo, Writer-boy, Chapter Three. That's usually where I start getting freaky in these things. Going to be a bit of an effort, what with the blade through my skull. How you going to write us out of that?

Just keep your Freak Flag furled for now. I got you covered.

Ooooo, alliteration. Let's get on with it.

Okay, I got two suped-up mercenaries on the street and Deadpool is down. Isn't he supposed to be unkillable? He sure looks pretty killed right now, what with his brains leaking all over the sidewalk. I glance over my shoulder. Bullseye is sauntering up like he's out to by a paper and a loaf of bread. Meanwhile, the other guy (I don't know him but his costume looks familiar), is just standing there. He's withdrawn his sword from Deadpool's head, flicked off the blood and gray matter and sheathed it back inside his cane.

I can hold my own in a fight, even aside from the super strength. Danny Rand taught me some Wing Chun and Jujitsu, but what I really am is a street fighter. And this is the street. Advantage – me.

"We're not here to harm you, just to take you to see your daughter and husband," Mask Guy says.

"Really? I don't think Bullseye got the memo, what with all the poison darts and plastic explosives."

"You'll have to forgive Lester, he gets a little overly excited. Plus, Wade brings out the worst in him. He brings out the worst in most people, actually." Mask Guy gestures to Deadpool and I hear him groan.

"We need to speed this up," Mask Guy continues. "I want to be gone before Wade is up and causing trouble again. Lester..."

I dive to my right and barrel-roll and another damn dart flies past. I can feel the breeze from it on my face. I crash into a garbage can and pop up to my feet. Thank God its a metal one. Don't find those around much any more. I fling it at Mask Guy as hard as I can and spin to face Bullseye with the lid as a shield just in time to deflect another dart. I spin again and smash the lid into Mask Guy's face. I hit flush and he staggers back. If not for the damn mask I'd have broken his nose, at least. As it is, it buys me a few seconds.

Back to Bullseye. He's closed the ground and now holds a knife in his left hand. "Sorry, Sweetie, I'm all outta tanq darts. Looks like we do this the fun way." He flips the knife to hold it by the blade.

I don't know what he expects me to do but it sure as hell isn't to charge him, which is exactly what I do. With a leap I plant my boot directly in Bullseye's face and down he goes. I land astride him and bash him in the face with my garbage can shield. As I do, I hear a struggle behind me and turn to see the black woman I saw earlier with her arm locked across Mask Guy's throat and he's going out. I see that Deadpool is up to his knees and he's staring at the black woman.

"Preston?" Deadpool questions and it comes out drunkenly.

The black woman ignores him and looks at me. "Get Wade the hell outta here. I'll hold these two. Go Missy!" she orders.

Missy? I want to snark, to question, but better judgment takes hold. I grab Deadpool under one arm, hoist him to his feet and drag him down the street.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

….

No clever lyrics this chapter?

Nope.

That's it then, no repartee? No cutting witticisms? What's wrong mes amigo?

….

Say, whatta ya got there big guy? That a Desert Eagle XIX .50 AE?

Yep.

Sooo, what do you plan to do with that?

Well, that depends on you fumble fingers. See, you said, and I quote, "I got you covered." Am I wrong? Is that not what you said? Yet here it is, Chapter Four and I still haven't so much as seen some cleavage. I am not happy. Say this for Liefeld, you never got two pages into a New Mutants or X Force without a shot of bodacious mutant cleavage. Sure the big hair and shoulder pads were a little disturbing, but at least there were boobies. What do I get here? An angry frumpy chick and a sword through the fucking head. So here's the options: A) write me some hot, sweaty lovin' or, II) I provide a little .50 inspiration.

OK, so: 1) I don't really write that kind of stuff and, ii) look down.

Shit nuggets! You turned my Desert Eagle into a fucking troll doll? How am I supposed to be a badass with a troll doll?

I don't know. Yandu makes it work.

Her name was Betsy...

Relax, I'll write your gun back. You wont need it for this chapter anyway. Just sit back and take this one off. Oh, and she's not frumpy. You just haven't gotten a good look at her yet.

"So let me make sure I have this crystal clear, I sent you two, and a strike team, out to retrieve one under powered and unsuspecting woman and you come back without the woman but with a collection of cuts and bruises. And with one of our men killed in action."

Bullseye and Taskmaster stand atop the stylized octopus crest before the giant oak desk in the Imperial Office of the headquarters of HYDRA in America in the Dell Rusk Building (formerly Stark Tower).

"Well, yes," replies Anthony Masters, better known as Taskmaster, to the figure behind the desk. "But in fairness to us, she was not quite as under powered as we were led to believe. She's not as fast as Quicksilver, but she moves pretty well. She made a jump that Batroc would have been proud of and she packs a hell of a punch."

"Maybe she's had an upgrade," Lester, a/k/a Benjamin Poindexter, a/k/a Bullseye, chimes in.

"Um, that's not likely, but I'll look into it," says the man behind the desk, in a tone of a manager humoring his subordinate. "Still, with the element of surprise, this should have been a cake walk."

"That's where Wade came in," Taskmaster picks up the story. "Seems he startled her and caused her to rabbit. Then, when we had her cornered on the rooftop, he got in the way and mucked things up, as per usual."

"Yes, Deadpool," says the man behind the desk thoughtfully, "he surely has a way of complicating matters. What do you think he was doing there? Do you think someone else may have put out a contract on her? It would be a problem if she has already been eliminated."

"Wade, take a contract on her?" says Taskmaster, "Not likely. She's too attractive for that. My guess is that he was just chasing a skirt. Not that Wade wouldn't kill a woman, under the right circumstances. But he'd have to have a reason. In his mind, she'd have to deserve it. Wade can be played, manipulated or brainwashed, but otherwise he can't be forced to go against his nature. That's why I warned against taking him into the New Order Avengers in the first place. Lucky he only left when you asked him to cross that line. It could have been much worse."

"You want us to take him out?" asks Lester.

"No, Bullseye," the man behind the desk replies, "I don't want you to do that at all. Leave Deadpool alone, I'll take care of him. I just have to get a message to him. Taskmaster, when you meet up with Ms. Cage again, can you take her, assuming no interference from Deadpool or middle-aged housewives?"

Taskmaster grits his teeth behind his mask and Lester's usual leer turns to a full smirk. "Yes, I can take her. I've seen her fighting style, such as it is. She's had a bit of martial arts training but she doesn't really use it. She's a brawler. Anything she does now I can counter. As for the 'housewife', that was a trained operative. I'd like to know who she's working for and whether she might show up again. If Deadpool has a team, that complicates things further."

"Don't worry about her either. I'm pretty sure I know who she is and I'll get the same message to her I get to Deadpool," says the man behind the desk who, to no one's surprise, is Steve Rogers, Captain America, and the head of HYDRA in America.

 _Meanwhile, across town..._

I've been lugging this guy for hours and he must be made of lead. For the first few blocks I had no idea where I was going, I just had to get away. I figured they'd be after me in seconds but the black lady was good to her word. She kept them off my tail so I dragged Deadpool along with one arm around him, like a pitiful girlfriend lugging her drunk, loser boyfriend home after a night out. Not that I've ever done that. Yeah, right.

Once I felt reasonably sure we'd gotten away and the streets became more deserted, I tossed Deadpool over my shoulder and we made better time. He's still heavy as fuck, though. That's the thing about having super strength: heavy is still heavy. Now, I'm out of breath and sweating like a pig. And now I'm hungry again, damn it. I wish I'd stuffed the disgusting turkey sandwich in my face while running from Bullseye. And now I want carne asada or bryndzove halushky, whatever the hell that is.

I've thought of some place to go now, but I can't get there tonight. I'm not sure I want to take Deadpool there anyway. Scratch that. I'm sure I don't want to take Deadpool there. Hell, I don't want to go there, but I will. It will be a good place to lay low for a few days until I can figure this out. I can go in the morning. It will be easier to get lost in the morning commute.

Now the streets are almost deserted, in spite of the fact that we just turned on to Park Avenue. I can see the giant HYDRA penis tower in the distance but we aren't going that far. Funny, I never made that connection when Tony Stark owned it. Of course he built a monument to his genitals.

There are a few cabs out and some pedestrians so I resume the sober girlfriend walk of shame, holding Deadpool under the arms and dragging him along. He's making more sounds now and gesturing weakly, which aids the ruse. We're not dressed the part of Park Avenue thirty somethings coming in from a night on the town, but maybe we're hipsters who've moved on up from Brooklyn. Yeah, that's it: his bloody hoodie and my leather jacket and boots are meant to be ironic. Well, my wardrobe could be. Shit.

We stop at the door of a high rise a couple of decades old. It's not the most posh address in town but it's not far from the top of the list. We clearly don't belong but I've been here enough times before that I can probably talk my way past the security guards. It'll help that I know the code to get in. It changes every two weeks and I have it emailed to me by one of the residents. They'll assume I'm an invited guest. Which I am. Sort of.

We're into the lobby and the security guy is one I've never met. Fortunately, he's engrossed in a Knicks game and doesn't even look up when the bell over the door dings, signaling that someone has entered the correct code. The Knicks? I hope he has money on the game, otherwise that just makes no sense.

We take the elevator almost all the way to the top. Only four apartments per floor this high up. The hallway is tastefully decorated in some kind of Scandinavian crap I don't know the name of, but which surely cost a lot. We stop at the door of the apartment on the northwest corner of the building, at the condo of the only super powered person, other than Carol Danvers, I completely trust right now. Unfortunately, she's out of town, at a media convention, of all things.

I enter a second code at the panel by the door and a click signifies that the door is now unlocked. I drag Deadpool inside and lean him up against the wall while I shut the door behind us and enter yet a third code, re-locking the door. And here we are, in the home of Trish "Patsy" Walker, a/k/a Hellcat, my oldest friend, my sister.

After my dad was killed in an auto accident when I was fourteen, my mom spiraled. She started drinking and that combined with her untreated bipolar disorder was a toxic mix with my teenage angst and rebellion. There were physical altercations which led to me being placed in foster care. How fucked up is that. Mom got drunk and tried to beat me up and I got sent away. Meanwhile, she got to stay home and wallow in her misery. It's possible I still have issues. Anyway, after six months in foster care, I got a new "Forever Home". Touching, no? It seems Trish's mom, Betty, who was the queen of the backstage mothers and would have made Joan Crawford blush, decided that her teen star daughter needed a less attractive "sister" to hang out with for press functions and photo ops. Yeah, that's right; my friend, Trish, is that Patsy Walker. She had her own TV show. She even had a comic book, if you can believe it.

It was six months of living hell. Trish's mother only spoke to me to scold me or to direct me on how to be a better sidekick to her little media darling. I hated both of them and started plotting my getaway. However, I started to see that it wasn't any better for Trish. Don't get me wrong, I still resented the hell out of her, with all her fans and her nice clothes. Meanwhile, I was essentially invisible until trotted out for the cameras, in my hand-me-downs and studio freebe clothes. But it started to dawn on me that Trish never got to be a kid. She couldn't hang out with friends. She couldn't go on dates. Hell, she couldn't eat a cheeseburger. We came home after school one day and she had a ketchup stain on her blouse. Mommy Dearest drug her into the bathroom and made her throw up. At that point I started to think of how I could get Trish out of that hell along with me. Not that we were friends. More like polite acquaintances who happened to live under the same roof, but I couldn't leave anyone to face that shit storm alone.

It came to a head over singing lessens. It seems the studio which had "Patsy" under contract decreed that all its teen idols had to be pop princesses as well and Trish couldn't sing worth a damn. So her mom got her voice lessens. I was dragged along to fetch water and applaud at appropriate moments, which were few and far between. Finally, the French Canadian voice coach threw up her hands and declared Trish tone deaf and a lost cause. This caused Betty to freak the fuck out and she drug Trish into the hallway. I sat where I was until I heard a loud smack and a muted cry. I flipped out. I raced into the hallway and saw Trish on the floor with her mouth busted and her fruitcake of a mother standing over her with her fist drawn back. I shoved Trish's mom and she flew down the hall and crashed into the fire exit, causing the alarm to go off. It gets kind of hazy there. I guess it was some kind of rage blackout. The next thing I knew, Trish was hanging off my upraised arm and when I looked up I realized I had ripped a water fountain out of the wall and was holding it over my head, ready to smash Betty with it.

Best as I can figure it, I got a little something extra out of the crash that killed my dad. See, I was in the passenger seat next to him, giving him grief over him grounding me for sneaking out to see a boy who was three years older than me, when he slammed into a chemical truck. My dad was killed instantly and I thought I came out of it with nothing more than a light scar above my left eyebrow. Maybe my mom had some reason to go screwy.

Anyway, I expressed to Betty, in clear and concise terms, that she would never touch or berate her daughter again in my presence or I would finish what I started. Then I dropped the water fountain (not on her) and walked out, through the spewing water from the broken pipes and past the stunned voice coach. I thought I would be arrested and sent to juvy or at least back to a group home. Instead, Trish found her spine and saved my ass for the first time. She threatened her mother with scandal into covering up the incident and taking me back into the house. Trish's career slowed and we both got to do some semi-normal teen girl stuff. I even went to prom where, of course, Trish was queen and my date was a loser who tried to grope me outside the gym. Oddly, I didn't feel jealous of Trish. I was proud of her. It was then I realized we had become friends. More than that, we were sisters.

After high school, Trish started college at a swank private university and I got a job at a diner in the little town upstate where she was in school. Not like I had a ton of options. I guess I could have moved back in with my mom, but we hadn't spoken in nearly three years and, as far as I knew, she was still bat shit crazy. I sure couldn't stay with Betty, who made it clear I was no longer welcome. But I could crash with Trish and read some of the stuff she was studying. She was into psychology and bio chemistry so it mostly sounded like bullshit gibberish to me, but I liked to pretend I was a student too. Trish offered to pay my tuition, but I couldn't bring myself to take it from her. Hell, I could never have gotten into that swanky school anyway.

In her second year Trish got an internship at a private lab nearby, in Westchester, working with a guy named Hank McCoy, who I later found out was Beast. She started coming home and talking to me about being a superhero. I had shared with her my theory about how I got my abilities and she insisted that the only way to get over my guilt for surviving the accident that killed my dad was to use them to make a difference. She would get really excited and start talking about adventures and shit. It sounded crazy to me but I liked to hear her talk and to see her happy. Looking back, those were the happiest days of my life that didn't involve my daughter. We were young and the world seemed full of possibilities. I even started to seriously consider the superhero nonsense.

Half way through Trish's sophomore year Betty found out I was staying with her and threatened to cut off the tuition money. Bad move, since it was really Trish's money, what she called her "Patsy Money". She fired Betty as her manager and sued to force her to account for most of the money that came in during the six years Trish had been the highest paid child star of all time.

I stayed with Trish until she graduated. At that point she moved into the X-Mansion. Jeeze, I know he was supposed to be some kind of saint, but will you get a load of the ego on Charles Xavier: The X-Mansion; those outfits with all the x's on them; and that "to me my X-men" bullshit. I never met him but Trish did introduce me to Hank McCoy and he impressed me as one of the genuine good guys. He, in turn, introduced me to Carol Danvers, then Ms. Marvel, now Captain Marvel, who took me under wing, so to speak. Trish and I lost touch for a while. Then she turned up in New York with her own radio show in syndication and a couple of best selling self-help books. I'll skip why she left the X-Men. I could never quite understand what she was doing there in the first place, since she isn't a mutant. She did come across a mystical, if tacky, outfit which imbued her with certain abilities and she started fighting crime in New York under the identity of Hellcat, just in time to see my own superhero career go down in flames. She and Carol were there to help me pick up the pieces, with Trish, once again, providing me with a place to live. So, of course, as soon as I could semi function on my own, I turned into the biggest bitch on earth and pushed her away. I just couldn't take her trying to push me to put the cape back on. Jesus Christ, I am the worst person ever. Still, every other Sunday, like clockwork, I get an email with the new security codes. Every one ends the same way: "Just in case you ever need to come home, Sis. Love Trish."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 _This is the boring song_

 _This is the boring song_

 _Why was that chapter so damn long_

 _I'm really bored right now_

 _So damn bored I'd fight a cow_

 _If I don't get some action soon_

 _I'm going to kill this guy with a wooden spoon_

 _And use his carcass for a spittoon_

 _This feely bullshit is really sick_

 _So just stop writing and..._

That's enough, Spawnpool!

 _...do it quick_

Okay, I get it. I promise you'll get some action this chapter.

Well, goody. 'Bout damn time. That was embarrassing getting hauled all over the city by a girl.

That's a long way from the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you. Hell, Cable literally puked you up once.

Hey, don't knock it until you've been inside my boy, Nate. He's got a smooth esophagus on him, I tell you. But seriously dude, what was up with that girly stuff?

Writing from the female protagonist's point of view, remember. And, we needed some backstory. You can't just assume everyone will have read the comics or seen the TV show. There has to be a reason Jessica would drag your sorry ass to Trish's apartment. We got to learn a lot about their relationship and how Jessica sees herself.

Relationship eh? Is that the action you were promising?

Don't look now but your Canuck is showing. You want a Molson and a beaver tail while you sit on the chesterfield and let me tell you aboot' it?

Bite me. So, are we going to get some hot girl/girl action, or what?

Sorry, not this chapter. Maybe in Chapter Seven.

Really?!

No.

Hoser.

Well, I'm still exhausted, beat up and hungry, but at least I don't smell like a sumo wrestler after a twenty mile hike. As soon as I entered Trish's apartment, I deposited Deadpool a sofa and made for the bathroom. He was still out of it, moaning and mumbling random words, with no sign of motor function. It was unbelievably creepy watching him come back from a fatal stab wound to the head. I had heard about it. I even saw Wolverine heal up from a bullet wound once. But there is a whole different ick factor to Deadpool's healing. I should have examined his wound at least but I just couldn't bring myself to do it until I was clean and felt a little more human.

The clothes I left are still here and I dress in a pair of gray sweat pants and a white tank-top. That done, I sit on the edge of the bed in the guest room. My room. The key to obtaining information is knowing what information you're after. At the outset of most interviews you have no idea if the witness has knowledge that will be useful in your investigation or not. If they do, will they be forthcoming or will they lie. Even if they don't lie, will they evade or dissemble. Like that word? I picked it up in my private investigator's course at the night school in the YMCA. Now I don't hide shit, I dissemble.

So as I sit here, I think about interviewing Deadpool, assuming he regains the ability to speak in complete sentences. To start an interview, (and this goes double for clients), you get them talking and just listen. As they talk, they will give you a road map of the path the interview can take to gain the most information. They may also give you 'tells'. Signs that indicate when they are making shit up or exaggerating to make themselves look better in your eyes. Example: ask a client when they first suspected a spouse was cheating and they will go back in time to when everything was roses and oral sex between them, to point out how clear it is that the relationship is now in the crapper. If they mention a change which occurred simultaneous to the the spouse getting a new job, it's probably the secretary. If they throw in details of how doggedly faithful they have been, they're probably cheating too. If they look down and away as they begin recounting an incident, then jerk their head up to look you in the eye as they finish, they're lying. I didn't get this stuff from the PI class. Pretty much all I got there was 'dissemble'. I picked this stuff up from having been lied to about a million and a half times.

Okay, so what do I need to know that Deadpool might be able to tell me? I still can't believe I'm in an apartment with fucking Deadpool. I mean I've seen some pretty fantastical shit and I'm in the know about a lot more. My best friends are Captain Marvel and Hellcat (I hate that name but what can I say? My super name was Jewel, for Christ's sake). But Deadpool is on a whole other level of crazy. He's literally crazy, for one thing, according to most of the heroes and the news reports I've seen. There was a picture of him in the Bugle a few years back, fighting the re-animated corps of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. I mean, I've seen a lot living in this city: Kree and Skrulls, giant flying robots, gods and demigods. But the zombie of a former president? And he killed him by throwing his wheelchair under a fucking subway train.

Got to get my head together. I need to know, first and foremost, if Deadpool was also sent to kidnap me. If he was, why didn't he do it? If he wasn't, what the hell was he doing there? Why are they after me now? Is there something going on with my daughter? Is she in danger? If she is, where is she and where the hell is Luke? He may hate my guts now, but I know, I just know, he'd never let harm come to Danni.

I walk out of the bedroom with as much confidence as I can fake and into the living room to find Deadpool missing, having left behind a large red smear on the white leather sofa. Fuck, that's going to cost me a pretty penny to have cleaned. I stop dead and stare at the spot. Now what? He was my only hope to collect some useful information before I go on the run. I need to know what I'm running from. And, how the hell was he able to get up and leave so soon? Then it occurs to me that he may have had help. Is there someone else in the apartment? I'm about to panic.

"Hey there," chirps Deadpool like we just ran into each other in the park. He's standing in the arch leading to the kitchen, a yogurt cup in his hand, his mask pulled down, but with a smear visible on the hem. The rest of his clothes are the same: blue jean, plain dark hoodie and combat boots. " We really should have gone through a drive-thru or something. This chick's got nothing in the fridge except yogurt, tofu and mineral water." His mask scrunches up as though in a grimace. I can see a hole in the forehead but the skin underneath looks normal. No, not normal. As I stand here I can see it deforming, like rotting fruit in time-lapse photography.

"Sorry," I say, shaking myself from the shock-induced stupor. "The owner is gone for a few days and she's a health nut."

"Yeah, I always figured Hellcat for one of those. She is fit, I'll say. If you know what I mean. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge." He really can make the eyes of the damn mask wink. It's creepy.

"How do you know this is Hellcat's apartment?" I ask, carefully leaving Trish's name out of it,

"Hey, I was an Avenger, sort of," he replies. "Plus, there's a picture of the two of you in her bedroom. You were hot in the tights and cape. Love the pink hair. What's your superhero name?"

This is not going the way I planned.

"What were you doing in Hellcat's bedroom?" I asked, mostly hoping he won't tell me.

"Oh, nothing creepy," he says, raising his mask just above his mouth and using a gloved finger to scrape up the last of the yogurt. "First rule of mercing: when you wake up from massive head trauma in a strange girl's apartment, you have to reconnoiter, you know, to see if there is any danger. Or, unattended underwear lying about. Kidding, kidding, I kid. Sort of.

"So," he continues before I can put together a coherent thought, "You two aren't roommates? No girl's night, painting each others' toenails? No pillow fights in lingerie?"

"What? No. Tr...Hellcat and I haven't been roommates in a long time and we never did any thing like that when we were. Listen, I need to know about what's going on. Why don't you come over here and sit down so we can discuss it?"

"Okayyyy," he says, drawing out the word like a twelve-year-old. "Ugh! I'm sooo hungry. After we talk, can we order Chinese or something?"

"We'll see," I say, using the tone I use on Danni when I don't want to tell her no and precipitate an argument. And yes, I know that's not great parenting, but name me one parent who hasn't employed that technique at one time or another. Deadpool strides over to the sofa and I sit on the chrome and white leather love seat at a right angle. It has to be the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the universe but it gives me a view of the door, the balcony and Deadpool.

"So," I begin, "Why were you at the meeting tonight?"

Deadpool stares at me. Those damn white eyes don't blink and I have no idea what's going on under the mask. He stares so long I begin to wonder if he heard me or if he understood the question. With all the crazy talk, its possible his brain is permanently scrambled from the sword wound. Or maybe language skills come back more slowly than motor function.

I repeat the question, "Why were you at the meeting tonight?" I speak more slowly and distinctly.

"I heard you," Deadpool says mirroring my tone. "It's a divorce support group. Why the fuck do you think I was there? The slimy sandwiches and scintillating cat conversation?"

"No. I mean, I...I... So you weren't there for me?" This is much too direct and I still have no kind of read on the guy.

Deadpool laughs. "Not that I wouldn't stalk you. You seem like a very stalkable lady. It's just that I didn't know you existed until you skulked in and sat down with me in the cool kids section."

"So, you're getting divorced?" I ask hoping to get him talking and buy some time to develop my strategy for this interview.

"I already am, I think. Yeah, I'm pretty sure. It's complicated. See the Missus sort of practices an alternative religion. And she's a succubus and the abdicated Queen of the Monster Metropolis under the city. All that monster shit a while back, that was her – mostly. She had me staked out and married some other smuck right in front of me. The way the demon minister explained it, that makes us divorced. But then she gave me a goodbye shag, so maybe we're married again. But then she left on her honeymoon with the other guy, so I'm leaning toward divorced."

My usual technique when an interview subject starts rambling is to sit impassively with a blank expression. The subject will interpret it to mean either, 'I know this is all bullshit', or 'hurry up and get to the important stuff'. Instead, I find I am now sitting on the edge of my seat, my jaw slack, mouth open.

"I know, right?" says Deadpool, noticing my expression. "Damn Dracula. What a dick! I should have staked him when we first met. Of course, then I never would have met Shikla in the first place. See, they were engaged and he hired me to escort her to New York for the wedding. Then he went all Vlad-the-Impaler on her brothers and I had to kick his ass. So Shikla and I fell in love and everything was wonderful until I fucked it up."

"Okay," I say, drawing out the word while I try to find an appropriate response. "I'm sorry to hear that. Have you been going to those meetings long?" I don't really care but I want to see if he's bullshitting me and really was there on behalf of HYDRA.

"First time," he replies. "I just...I needed to know that that part of my life wasn't crazy. I mean it is crazy. Jeeze, I married a succubus. But the part where it falls apart and I feel empty and alone. Other people go through that too, I know that, but I needed to hear it. See, when my relationships break up there's usually a corpse or two. So I guess this one represents some kind of growth. But shit it hurts and she's still out there and I sit around and wonder if I could still make it right or if I'm always doomed to fuck up everything good in my life."

Okay, this is how it is supposed to work. I've got him talking in almost complete sentences and semi-rational thoughts. Blank expression.

"See, everything started to look up for me when I met Shikla. My business was booming. Literally booming. I blew a lot of shit up and got paid for it. I got a lot of freelance work for SHIELD. I found out I have some family, (which I don't want to go too far into now). Then Captain America, CAPTAIN AMERICA, offered me a spot on his Avengers Unity Squad and I got to do some real good. Shit I didn't have to rationalize or try to forget. Stuff I could be proud of. And it was because of Steve Rogers. Then...well hell, you've seen the papers or the television (not that there's much worth watching on there these days – fucker ordered reruns of Baywatch taken off the air).

"So that brings up an interesting point," I say, trying not to sound judgmental, "Aren't you still one of Roger's Avengers or whatever he calls them now? I thought you and Bullseye were teammates."

"I quit after Las Vegas. I'm down with the killing. I've done it most of my life. But not civilians and not women and children who don't deserve it. I was brainwashed and manipulated into killing without conscience for a long time. But not anymore. I know sometimes bad shit needs to be done and I'm alright with being the one who does it. But the only reason for that shit storm was to instill fear in the normals and and make sure any superhero resistance stays far underground. It was all for the power of HYDRA. That shit I am not down for. So I quit."

He seems both angry and resigned. I'm ready to believe he isn't with HYDRA any longer, but still there are a lot of untidy threads. "So he just let you quit?" I ask, my tone indicating that I don't believe it.

"Well there was a bit more to it. When they tried to stop me from leaving I killed about forty-eleven HYDRA Redshirts. Then I let them know that if they came after me or mine, I would make it my sole mission in life to destroy every motherfucking one of them until they weren't even a footnote in a history book. One of the percs of being immortal is you can say shit like that and they believe you. It also helped that I planted a virus in the software of every helecarrier which allows me to take control and crash the fuckers. I took down one of those flying garbage barges that ULTIMATUM stole once and while I was there I sort of acquired a bit of the software that runs them. So I had a buddy of mine fuck with it and create a virus. You just never know when that shit will come in handy. They won't want to mess with me until they figure out how to clean their PC's and Norton ain't going to handle this shit. That should take a few more months."

"If you can take control of their helecarriers why don't you use that to stop them?" I ask. I'm amazed this maniac is capable of that level of forethought and planning. And also at the level of his paranoia. A part of me approves.

"Can't." Deadpool responds. "I said I can crash them, not run them. Right now they're all parked over major population centers. If they ever fuck up and move one over an ocean or a desert or Cleveland or something, BOOM. But for now, I can't touch them, and they can't touch me. At least not before tonight." He manages to look thoughtful through the mask.

"And that brings up a couple of more points. Why did you protect me and why were they willing to attack you to get at me?"

Deadpool is silent for a moment. "I can only answer one of those questions. As for why I protected you, I've sort of developed this thing where I don't like to see people get picked on. It's a...what'a you call it?"

"A conscience?" I offer helpfully.

"No, that doesn't sound right. Whatever, I just got pissed off when Bullshit stepped out and tried to tranq you. Whatever the purpose was it couldn't have been good. And you're kind of pretty and stuff and I didn't want to see you get thrown in a re-education camp."

"So you did it because you wanted to get laid?"

"No... Well, yeah, I mean I always want to get laid. But really, that's like every guy, ever, so that doesn't make me a perv or anything. What makes me a perv is..."

"I don't think I need to hear that right now," I cut him off. "So what about the other part? What makes me so special that HYDRA would risk all their helecarriers by attacking you to get to me?"

"See, that's the part that has me just a smidge concerned," says Deadpool. "It's possible that they've gotten rid of the virus but I think they would have come after me directly if they had."

"Why haven't they just killed you. I know you're essentially unkillable, but I saw what the sword to the skull did. You were down long enough that they could have locked you up in the Raft and thrown away the key. No more threat."

"They don't know how I have it set to trigger. I've got a butt-load of future tech, thanks to certain time-traveling buddy of mine. As far as they know, I could have it set to go off if my heart stops or if I'm out of range of a cell tower."

"Do you?"

"Hehehe. It wouldn't be a secret if I told you, now would it?" Deadpool shifts on the sofa. "Now, I've sat through you're interrogation, how about you answer a few questions of mine?"

Sometimes that can work, too. A subject's questions let you know what they don't know. Sometimes they know things they don't realize are important and their questions can point you in that direction.

"Seems fair," I say, "Shoot." I glance at the very large semi-auto which is now strapped to Deadpool's side and regret the word, Where'd he get the gun-belt with all the pouches on it? Deadpool giggles.

"Alrighty, then," he rubs his hands together. "What's your name?"

I pause. I really thought he would have figured it out by now. I'm not famous as supers go, but it is a pretty small community and he's been associated with Luke on more than one occasion.

"Is that one too hard for you?" Deadpool snarks.

"You really don't know?" I respond. A shake of the head. "I'm Jessica Jones. Jones-Cage," I correct.

"Oh! You're Power-Puff Girl," Deadpool sings and I shoot him a look.

"I was Power _Woman_ , for like a minute," I reply coldly.

"But, weren't you an Avenger, too?"

"Yeah, for about long enough to get unpacked in the Avenger's Mansion."

"So, what happened?"

"I had a kid. It was a bad lifestyle for parenting."

"You had a kid?" I can see him ogling me in the sweats and tight tank-top and I force myself not to cover up, but I'm getting pissed off.

"So, where's the kid?" Deadpool barks, and there is a slight change in his tone. It catches me off guard.

"I...I don't know...I think she's with Luke, wherever he is...I just..." Suddenly, I can feel myself break down. The sleep deprivation, the worry, being chased and beaten. It's all too much and I can feel tears welling up. I hate myself for it.

Suddenly there is an arm around me and Deadpool is beside me on the love seat. I try to push him away but he's holding me tightly. Not like a threat or like a perv, but like a father holding his child. I think of Luke holding Danni when she had a nightmare and I start to cry in earnest.

"Shh, Shh," Deadpool soothes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's just that you're so tough I had to break through to make sure you were for real and not part of some set-up. It wouldn't be the first time some douche-bag used the damsel in distress routine to manipulate me. I just had to know."

"Fuck you," I manage but I've stopped trying to pull away from him. I could probably do it. Super-strength and all. But I'm just too tired. "Fuck you. I'm no damn damsel."

"I know you're not. I know. You're just caught in all this fucked up shit like I am. Now that I know you're on the up and up, we can maybe help each other. If you'll let me."

These are maybe the gentlest words I've ever heard from the mouth of a macho superhero. In all our time together, I've heard Luke down and depressed. I've heard him hopeful. I've heard him happy. But mostly, I realize, I've heard him angry. And I've never heard him this gentle. There is a plea in this man's voice, like he needs to hold onto something as much as I need to be held right now. I say nothing and continue to let him hold me until the tears won't come any longer. I still want to cry but I can't. I can't believe I just let this stranger, this killer, see me cry like this.

I pull away, but gently, and he lets me. I wipe at my eyes and he produces an old-fashioned lady's handkerchief with the letters "S.W." embroidered on it from one of the pouches. I stare at it.

"Go ahead," Deadpool says, his voice still quiet, but now with some mischief in it. "I don't use it for that. It takes a hand towel, at least."

I can't help it. I start to giggle. It's a reaction to exhaustion. But it feels good and Deadpool joins me. Pretty soon were both laughing like idiots.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

 _Well, I remember the day my fucking libido died_

 _The author sat me on a couch with a hot chick and all we did was we cried_

 _Well I know there's a lotta big authors that know a lot more than I do_

 _But it could be an audience likes a little hot sex too_

 _Yeah, I remember the day my fucking libido died_

Wow, I'm impressed. Where the hell did that come from?

Canada, the land where 70's country/folk music is still considered cool.

But still, Tom T. Hall, _The Year Clayton Delaney Died_? (Google it kids. Your ISP will be relieved it's something besides MILF porn.) And, you made it relevant. Kudos.

Aw fuck you. It was in your head you hillbilly fuck. Quit tryin' to butter me up. I'm surprised you didn't do a fic of Cannon Balls and his sister in a shack in old Kentucky.

Hey, in the next chapter maybe I could have you run into him. Think of the "He's got a purty mouth" jokes.

Fuck you twice. So that's the best I get? I get to hug a crying chick.

Baby steps DP, baby steps.

I wake up in Trish's bed. I put Deadpool in the guest room (after making sure I didn't have any stray underwear in there). I can't believe I got to sleep without any booze. I was too exhausted from the night's events, I guess. But there was something else. Getting all the tears out was some kind of catharsis. I can't believe I used that word. I'm pretty sure I've never used it before. I'd much rather swallow down a cocktail of drain cleaner and nails than let emotions out like that, certainly in front of someone else, let alone a stranger. But, I guess I needed it.

Before we went to bed, I told Deadpool about Danni and how Luke had taken her just before the HYDRA takeover. And, I told him why. I'm still not 100% sure I can trust him. I mean he played me during my own interrogation. He manipulated my emotions just to get me to give him one unguarded answer and that opened the floodgate. I've used that technique, but never that well. It was brilliant. I wonder if anyone has ever used that word about Deadpool before. I doubt it, but maybe they should. I think he's made a living out of making people underestimate him.

Before I get out of bed I need to think about what I told him and consider how much it might compromise me. See, I told him I'd been in prison. Not regular prison, superhero prison. Why? It's not important right now. The important thing is it was all faked so I could help Carol Danvers and SHIELD take down some bad guy who had it out for superheros. But, before I left I stashed Danni in the one place I didn't think Luke would look for her. I know he loves her. I still believe that. But I'm not sure I could trust him to protect her and the thing I was doing could leave enemies behind that would not pause at harming her to get to me. That pissed him off, greatly.

Then when it was all over, but before I could get my reputation restored, Luke found Danni, the whole Captain HYDRA shit went down, Carol split for space and...and...and Maria Hill showed up at my office and hired me to find out who was trying to kill her after Steve Rogers had her ousted as SHIELD Director. Holy shit. I don't see the whole picture yet but that has to have something to do with it.

I hop out of bed and start to put my clothes back on. Then I smell food. I'd almost forgotten what breakfast could smell like. I can make out coffee and bacon and something else. Pancakes? Alright, this is big and I have to get moving, but still, I don't think I ate anything yesterday and I'll have to eat, and bacon. Shit.

I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth and wash my face. In the mirror I look awful but maybe not as bad as I did last night. I don't have a healing factor per se, but being a super does make me pretty durable and I heal up a bit better than normal. I throw one of Trish's sweatshirts on, a maroon one from her old college, and my dirty jeans from yesterday. I should have left more clothes here.

I almost hit the bedroom door when it occurs to me that I have to make a decision. Do I take Deadpool with me where I'm going or do I ditch him? On the one hand, if I have to make a guess, I believe he's being honest and really does want to help me. On the other hand, it's still a slight possibility that he's running a long con on me to see where I'll lead him. Of course I still don't know what he could hope I'll lead him to. Plus, Deadpool is famous for the kind of "help" that leaves behind demolished buildings and dead bodies. If this involves Danni, and before its over I'm sure it will, do I really want that kind of help? I don't think so.

That settled, I head to the kitchen where I find Deadpool wearing an apron and happily flipping pancakes. One large stack is already plated, along with at least two pounds of bacon. My stomach makes a lustful noise and I am mortified when Deadpool hears it.

He turns when he hears me and cleanly misses the pancake he had flipped into the air. It completes about twenty rotations as it plummets to land on the tile floor with a smack.

Deadpool stares at it a second then yells, "Five second rule!" and scoops it up with a spatula. He flips it back onto the skillet. "No worries. That one's mine."

"I don't think the five second rule applies to pancakes your still making," I say looking at the splat of batter on the floor.

"Sure it does. It applies to everything. I've used it for chili before." I can tell he's grinning under the mask and I wonder how he'll handle eating in front of me.

"Well it smells great in here. I can't remember the last time anyone made me pancakes." Actually I can. It was Trish, the first morning I woke up here after I got away from Killgrave and ...no not going there. I've had enough emotions for a while.

"Well have a seat," Deadpool says and motions to the small kitchen table which I see is now set up with orange juice, coffee, warm maple syrup and a single pink flower in a small fluted vase.

"How...When...when did you do this? Did you go out after I went to bed?"

"Yeah, I don't sleep much and I got really bored, and hungry. I'd have brought you something back from the all-night pizza joint but you were really sawing logs in there. I think super-snoring must be one of your powers."

"Nice," I say. "Way to not let the moment get all saccharin or anything."

"I do what I can," he says and sets the other plate of pancakes on the table. Then he pulls out a chair for me. Not in a funny way but like he's serious and trying to be a gentleman. What the hell is going on in that head.

I sit, a little uncomfortable and watch as Deadpool does likewise. He looks at me and says, "So, I have to roll this thing up to eat."

"Well, duh," I respond, "I kinda guessed that."

"Well, it shouldn't be bad enough to put you off your feed or anything. I just wanted to warn you so you won't scream and choke on a bacon strip or anything."

"Why don't you just take the damn thing off?" I ask. "I really don't care what you look like and I'm not squeamish."

"No can do. Deadpool only takes his mask off in front of a lady for one thing. And that thing is...charades. Well two things, but you're probably not up for the other one either. So, bottom line, Deadpool can't take off his mask."

"But he can talk about himself in the third-person?" I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Eww! Right. That would make me Douchepool. But, nonetheless, the mask has to stay on."

"Okay, no big deal. You're the one who has to eat that way." I can't wait any longer and I dig into the pancakes. Oh sweet mother of Pearl Baily! (A/N Google her kids) He made them from scratch and used buttermilk! A sound escapes from deep in my chest and I'm mortified. Again.

"Hey, are we doing the scene from When Harry Met Sally?" Deadpool asks. "I love that one."

I look up and he has, indeed, rolled his mask up to his nose, crammed a large bite of pancake in and he's grinning. It is a little hard to take, but not nearly as bad as he seems to believe. His lower face looks like one big keloid scar, or like he's covered in melted candle wax. His lips are similarly scared, but full, and his teeth are perfect, even with the food somewhat visible. It must have been a good face before it got all fucked up.

"Sorry. It's just that these pancakes are probably the best thing I've ever put in my mouth."

"Don't let Power Man-Thing hear you say that," Deadpool says dryly.

"Fuck you," I say, but somehow him bringing up Luke doesn't make me as sour as it would have yesterday. "Maybe I'll tell him Deadpool gave me something better."

"Oh, please do," he says sounding giddy. "He'll have to punch through a bunch of walls to work off that kind of anger."

"Aren't you a little concerned he might punch through you?"

"Naw. I mean, he might, but I'll get back up again. _I get knocked down, but I get up again, Ain't never going to keep me down; I get knocked... "_

And there's the crazy. I cut him off, "You think maybe we should be talking about a plan. I need to figure out what's going on and then we need to get out of here. It won't be long before Captain Shithead's goons figure out where I've gone. Luke will know for sure."

"Aw, you cut me off before the good part," Deadpool whines, still stuffing his mouth with pancakes and bacon. "I can make up a whole bit about Danny Boy Rand. You think he knows how dirty that Iron Fist moniker sounds?"

"Pretty sure. I've told him. Anyway, last night you said something about a superhero re-education camp. What was that about?"

"Yeah, that where everyone has gone. Well, not everyone. They've left the X-Persons alone for the most part. And Spidy's still out there because he does a lot to help keep down the New York riff-raff and it'd create a stir if he went missing. A lot of the others are underground or trapped off-planet but a pretty big number have been rounded up and are being held in a camp up in the Catskills in an old Weapon Plus facility."

"And Rogers told you all this?" I need to know if he's making up bullshit now.

"Not directly, but yeah. It's pretty well known inside their group. It hadn't started when I left but I keep an ear open. Never know what intel will come in handy."

I consider this. I may be small-time, but I'm still a super and could be considered a risk. Is that what they intend for me? The thought makes me cold. I'd much rather be beaten, even tortured, than have my mind fucked with. Again.

"It's alright. I ain't going to let that happen to you," Deadpool says, reading my thoughts. On some level, I appreciate the sentiment, but today, with the sun starting to peek through the windows, it also pisses me off and I renew my decision to dump him and proceed on my own.

"Look, I appreciate that, but I can look out for myself."

"Yeah, I get that. It's just that a team-up can be pretty handy when it gets super shitty. And believe me, this is the whole cesspool right now."

And now he seems all reasonable again. There must be a dozen voices fighting to take control inside his head.

"So, the guy in the skull mask said something about taking me to see my daughter. What do you think that was about? Was it bullshit?"

"So that's who it was that sank the shaft through my noggin. I didn't really get a look at him. His name is Tony."

"Tony? Tony? Not Deathman or the Skullinator?"

"His super name is Taskmaster. I know, lame right? But his real name is Tony Masters. As for what he said...It could just have been to get you to go quietly, but I doubt he thought that would work. It's not a good enough plan for him to have been seriously trying to fool you. My guess is its the truth, or at least part of the truth, and it just slipped out at the moment."

This sounds reasonable and it's not good news. "What do you think it has to do with Danni?" I'm not sure I want to hear his theory but I need to. Deadpool is silent, thinking and munching on the last of the bacon. Or maybe he's just engrossed in the pork product. How the hell would I know?

"Danni's your kid and Luke's, right?"

I nod.

"Well, my guess is they have her at the camp. It's easier to turn a super before their powers manifest."

I blink at that.

"What do you mean by that? Neither Luke or I are mutants. I'm a chemical accident and he's a science experiment. There's no reason to think Danni will have any powers."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But it occurred to me that there has to be a reason. I mean, a guy gets bitten by a spider and what happens? His leg swells up. If he's unlucky, poison goes into his bloodstream and he croaks. Another guy gets blasted by gamma radiation and what happens? He gets turned into a microwave burrito. You get run over by a chemical truck and Lukie gets experimented on by a non-union equivalent of Weapon X and what did you get? Super powers. Why?

"The answer is in the genes. And not the tight faded ones you've been sportin'. A good look for you, by the way. It has to be genetic. Maybe it's not the x gene like the mutants have but it has to be a mutation of some kind that causes your body to change in certain ways to survive or to overcome a dangerous situation. You have no idea how many poor slobs Weapon X has tortured to death trying to make them into super soldiers. Some of those guys were a lot tougher than me. Why did I transform into this handsome, unkillable devil you see today, while they bit the big one?

"So, with all this in mind, I had my daughter tested. I mean, my genes are all kinds of fucked up now, so mostly I was worried that she wouldn't be healthy. Her mom didn't have any powers, but genetic testing showed significant changes in her chromosomes. Not on the X gene, but right next door. According to Beast, he believes she is a mutant and will develop powers at some point. He's pretty smart and he should know. I had to give him a belly rub to pay for the exam."

In spite of the seriousness of the conversation, I have to giggle at the thought of Deadpool giving Hank McCoy a belly rub. And I don't giggle. Then another thought occurs to me and I fall out laughing.

"Did his leg shake when you rubbed his belly?" I gasp out between laughs.

This gets Deadpool laughing, as well.

"Oh yeah. Especially when I got just up under his rib cage. I think he peed a little."

That sends us both into fits and it takes a few minutes for us to calm down.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

 _Well it's tough to get some nookie with my history_

 _Of killing off my girlfriends and a face like me_

 _That's okay, oh just screw it_

 _Put me and the chick in a bedroom and see how we do it_

 _Let me hit it while it's so hot_

 _Why don't you let me hit it while it's so hot_

 _Let me hit it while it's so hot_

 _Then go away_

Well, that's disturbing. And, it has nothing to do with what's going on in the narrative.

Narrative? You mean that crap-load of fluff you put in the last chapter? I didn't really read it. It was sooo boring! Hey, you think that Pat Benatar chick is a mutant? That hair and that tucas. She'd have fit right in with the New Mutants.

Probably not, but I think Liefeld had a big crush on her in the 80's. Hell, who didn't?

I know, right? So how about we liven things up in this chapter? How about it pal? Maybe a good fight scene and some sword-play?

We'll see about the fight scene, but you don't have your katana with you.

 _Oh yeah I do!_

Eew! Let's just get on with it.

I glance at the kitchen as we leave. If I live through this, I'm going to get hell from Trish for wrecking her place. Somehow Deadpool managed to dirty every bowl and pan in the place to make pancakes and bacon, not to mention the blood stain on her very expensive sofa. No, actually Trish won't say a word about it, but she should. I'm a shit friend.

I put my plan in place as we wait for the elevator.

"Shit! I left Danni's Alf doll. I really want her to have it when we find her." I look at Deadpool with as much pitiful mother as I can manage. "Please. Would you go back and get it while I hold the elevator?" This is pretty lame as I say it and I can't believe it works. I had to pick something he would have seen in the apartment and there really is an Alf doll. It was in my bedroom, where Deadpool slept. Trish had teased me for a while that I was really an alien and bought me the doll as a joke. I hated the damn thing and didn't take it with me when I left. Danni has never seen it. For some reason, right now I wish I could really give it to her and tell her what a great friend her aunt Trish is.

"Sure thing Hot Mamma. I'll be back in a flash," Deadpool says, as I hand him a paper with the security codes written on it. The elevator arrives and I make a show of holding the door until the apartment door closes behind him. As soon as it does, I'm in the elevator pushing the Lobby button repeatedly. On the way down I feel some regret for ditching Deadpool. I believe he actually wants to help and he could come in handy in a fight, but the overriding factor is the chaos he leaves in his wake. This has to be done quietly if I'm going to keep Danni safe and that's just not his MO.

Unfortunately, I still don't know how I'm going to accomplish it. In broad terms, I'm going to Connecticut, where I have some stuff stashed and I can lay low for a couple of days while I work out the details. Then I'm going to the Catskills and bust Danni out of whatever pen they're holding her in and we're going to run. I have no idea where but there has to be a place. I can work that out in Connecticut, as well. Or while we're running. Shit, I'll just figure it out as I go. It strikes me that I may be guilty of the same lack of forethought I've been worried about in Deadpool.

The elevator dings as it reaches the lobby and the doors open. It's about 8:00 in the morning, and as I cross the lobby toward the door, it occurs to me that it shouldn't be this empty. People should have been leaving for their jobs. Even people on Park Avenue have to join the morning rush hour. In fact, the lobby is completely empty. Where the fuck are the security people? And, there should be a doorman on duty by now. Shit.

I turn in mid step and make for the garage exit. I know they probably have that exit covered as well, but at least there may be some cover there. That hope dies as soon as I open the door at the foot of the garage stairs. I'm looking down about twenty automatic weapons barrels and I hear a mad cackling behind them.

"I got her. Told you she'd come this way," Bullseye says into a headphone mic. I can't hear the other side of the conversation which is being transmitted into an ear bud, but a couple of seconds later, the maniac says, "No sign of Deadpool. He may be coming out your way. Keep an eye out for him and we'll transport the target from here." A pause, "Roger that."

"Alright Hot Pants, we're going to cuff you and bag you, then we're going to take a nice drive in the country. Won't that be fun? And you're not going to cause any trouble or the boys are going to ventilate you real good. Cap may not like that, but he'll get over it, understand?"

I look around, a bit wildly, and try to figure options. The problem is, there don't seem to be any. I can't outrun gunfire and I'm not impervious to bullets. Not for the first time, I envy Luke's super power. On the up side, at the end of this ride I may be closer to Danni. Under the circumstances I decide to go with that. Stay alive for now and try to find a way out before they fuck with my head. I'm scared but I don't want to show it. If I smart off it will come out like what it is, a mask for my fear, so I remain silent as they cuff me with zip-ties and put a bag over my head.

I'm lead through the garage, then stopped as I hear a sliding door open.

"Watch your step getting in the Van, Sweetie. Don't want to damage Luke's nookie in transit..."

THUNK! I hear the sound before Bullseye can finish his taunt and I'm thrown down on the garage floor. I struggle with the cuffs as I hear the sounds of a fight around me. There are more THUNKS and a few gunshots and I try to roll under the van. I have to guess at the direction, since I've lost my bearings. The fight seems to last several minutes but it must have been only seconds. There are surprisingly few gunshots and they all seem to be from the same weapon. The THUNKS and sounds of bodies hitting the floor are more common. Throughout the fight I can hear Deadpool jabbering constantly, but the hood and other noises of the fight muffle his words and I can't make them out.

Then it's silent for a second and I sense someone near me.

"Hey if you didn't want to do a team-up with me, I get it. But I think these guys would make way worse side-kicks."

I'm helped to my feet and the bag comes off. I'm looking into Deadpool's face and, I swear, the hurt is visible on his mask. I look around the garage as he cuts the zip-ties with the now bloody K-bar. There are bodies strewn about and a three-foot piece of 2 inch metal pipe lies in the middle. Bullseye is lying face down near me, with blood coming out of his nose. I stare at Deadpool, rubbing my wrists where the cuffs have cut into them.

"Okay, so it's your choice," he says, "We go together or you can make a break for it while I distract the nimrods out front. Which way do you want to do this?"

My last decision didn't turn out so well, so I don't hesitate. "We go together," I say.

"Okay. Then we're going to need wheels," Deadpool says, looking around the garage.

"Why don't we take their van?" I say, looking through the window. "The keys are in it."

"You don't think HYDRA can track a HYDRA van?" Deadpool replies with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Shit. I should have thought of that."

"No worries. I've played thousands of hours of Grand Theft Auto. I got this."

Deadpool looks around the garage then walks past several BMW's and a Porshe to relatively unassuming silver coupe. He squats down and hugs the car's grill.

"Oh baby, where have you been all my life. Papa's going to take such good care of you," he murmurs into the headlight.

"So I guess you like this one."

"Sorry. Hope you weren't put off by our little PDA. You know how it is when love is new."

"I'll bite. Tell me what's so special about this one, but make it quick. We have to get out of here."

"This little beauty is the Bentley Continental Supersports. It's the world's fastest production 4-seater, which will become important when we have to strap a couple of car seats in back. It's got a twin turbo W-12 engine which turns out about 700 horsepower and does over 200 miles per hour. Plus, it's built like a tank and weighs over 5,000 pounds, in case any goons try to run us off the road. And, what can I say, I like my girls big and curvy."

"Well that's just great, but what are we going to do with it. It's a brand new car. You can't hot wire a new car. We need something over a decade old."

Deadpool pulls out a cell phone and shows it to me. "Don't worry," he says, punching an icon on the phone's screen, "I've got an app for that."

The door locks click open as the engine starts with smooth thrum and he giggles. Then he skips around to the passenger side and open's the door for me elaborately. I shrug and get in and, holy shit this is nice. The inside is all polished wood and chrome. And the leather is softer than anything I've ever felt. It's like the bucket seat is massaging my whole body or at least the back side. I feel like it should expect a tip and ask if I want a happy ending.

"Nice uh?" Deadpool asks, still holding the door. "Unfortunately, you don't get to ride up here on the way out."

"What?" I ask.

"I only got one of these gizmos," he says, holding up a triangular object, "And they're going to be looking for us on the way out."

I look at him blankly, still not catching on. Then he presses the button and instantly his face becomes that of a bland, semi-handsome blond forty-year-old with just a bit of jowl. A typical Wall Street type, hair parted neatly on the right. With his hoodie, he looks like an exec on his way out of town for a long weekend.

"So what am I supposed to do..."

"You ride in the trunk. Don't worry, there's plenty of space in these babies. Imagine if we'd taken that Porshe 911 over there."

I get out slowly. That lingering doubt re-emerges. What if Deadpool is after me for a different reason than these HYDRA assholes? Am I really going to just get in the trunk? He takes my hand as I stand and looks me in the eye.

"Trust me," he says.

And to my surprise, I do.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

….

Okay, what is it now? I thought you'd be singing something to the tune of _An Ode to Joy_ or _Halleluia_. At least Pherrell's _Happy_. You got your fight scene.

Meh.

Meh?

Yeah, meh. That had to be the lamest fight scene I've had since that Wolverine movie. You write fight scenes like Liefeld draws 'em.

What was wrong with your fight scene?

Well, first of all, you couldn't see it.

It's not a comic book. Of course you can't see it.

You've never heard of a descriptive narrative, have you? And what was up with that shit where she couldn't hear my funny quips. What do you need Deadpool for if you don't use my funny quips? You might as well have used Deathstroke.

I wonder if it's too late to go back and change out Deathstroke for Deadpool? I wouldn't have to change the first three letters...

Oh fuck that. You've gotten me this far into it. We might as well finish. How about you let me take the wheel this chapter? Huh, come on, you know you want to.

I hate when authors do that in the middle of a novel. The change in voice breaks up the flow.

Come on, Kevin Hearne does that now and it doesn't seem to be hurting him any. He even lets the dog do a chapter here and there.

If only we had a dog.

Fuck man, if I'm going to let you drag me through this shit show the least you can do is let me tell a chapter. We can have some fun with my boxes. And by that I mean...

You'd better mean your thought boxes. But I thought you lost those. I don't want to go through some convoluted back story where you were bonded to Madcap again.

What are you, the canon police all of a sudden. Just go with 'I'm crazy' and leave it at that.

Fine. **Bold** for yellow, _Italics_ for white. Good enough?

Goody!

 _I might seem crazy, what I'm about to say_

 _Deadpool is here to save the day_

 _I'm gonna win this chick so she'll sit on my face_

 _I won't need air, I don't care, by the way_

 _(Because I'm happy)_

 _Clap don't last long..._

This is such a bad idea.

….

 _What the hell are you doing? We have to get out of here._

I've got to find some tunes. Have you seen the primo sound system in this thing?

 **Has this guy got any Bruno Mars? I'm feeling a little bit funky.**

I'm looking for some Ed Sheeran.

 _Oh fuck!_

 **What?**

 _He's looking for sappy love songs._ _You know what this is. He's saved her ass so now he's in love. This never ends well._

 **In love? With who? The chick in the trunk? She's not his type. She can't be above a c cup.**

 _Didn't you see her last night, with the black leather jacket, all angry and dark? She's got auburn hair and big brown eyes and that booty in tight jeans. Yep, he's in love. Plus, she didn't throw up when he pulled his mask up to eat._

Shaddup, both of you. I'm not in love. Can't a guy get a smooth romantic vibe on without it being a big thing?

 _You_ _can't._

 **I got to go with White on this one. You know she just tried to ditch you, right?**

 _That just makes him hotter._

Does not. She needs our help and I ain't doing anything today. I'm just going to get her away from these HYDRA douche-bags, then I'll dump her.

 _Then why are you thinking about doing that thing we agreed you weren't going to do until there was no other choice._

What thing?

 _You know what thing. "The thing". The thing that makes you a monster._

 **He already started "the thing".**

 _Yes, but he's not a monster until he finishes it. Is this really what you're going to use it for?_

I don't know. Maybe. Fuck.

 **Well said. You know, we could have some fun doing "the thing". There's bound to be bloodshed. Stabby, stabby, shooty shooty.**

Hey lookie! I love the guy who owns this car. This should make you both happy. I got to leave him a nice thank-you note when I return it.

 _He's not returning this car._

 **I bet he totals it.**

Shaddup. I want to listen to my jams.

 _America, have you heard?  
I got a brand new dance and it's called "The Bird"  
You don't need no finesse or no personality  
You just need two arms and an attitude  
And everybody sing with me, come on now_

 _Whawk! Hallelujah! Whoa_

 _I really do love Morris Day and the Time._

 **And this sound system really is primo.**

(A/N: Hey guys, can we move this along? We have a story to tell and the bad guys are going to be in here any second. Oh, and don't use real song lyrics. Okay? Now I have to credit Prince, Morris Day and the Time and remind everyone that I don't own this.)

 **What's up with this fucking guy?**

He thinks he's a writer or something.

 _ **Bawhawhawhaw!**_

So, where were we? Oh yeah. The key to a surreptitious getaway is not to look inconspicuous, but to look like you don't care that you're conspicuous.

 _"_ _Surreptitious"? Where'd you get that word?_

 **I was impressed by inconspicuous.**

 _I bet he borrowed 'em from the writer guy._

 **Naw, he doesn't seem that smart either.**

For the last time, shaddup before I put the headphones on and blast Rick Astley directly into my brain.

 **Oh shit. The nuclear option.**

 _Shutting up now._

It works to perfection. The HYDRA stooge at the garage exit simply waves us through. Good thing he didn't ask for ID, since I left my psychic paper in my other pouches. Man, how cool would it be to have a psychic paper? Fuck that sonic screwdriver.

I turn east on 104th street then north on 2nd Avenue. I'm not really going to Harlem but I want to shake off anyone that tails us, just in case.

 **If we went south, there's an Original Famous Ray's Pizza down a couple of blocks. Just sayin'.**

 _I prefer Famous Ray's Original, myself._

 _Never going to give you up..._

 **Okay, shutting up.**

Besides, it doesn't open until 11:00 and it's still early morning. Traffic sucks wang, but that's good, since it will make us almost impossible to spot on traffic cameras when they realize we got away.

 _Uh, sorry for the interruption, but I think they figured it out. Look in the mirror._

Fuck sticks! Two black vans are coming up fast. Okay, time to see what this baby will do.

 **Not to throw cold water on your plan, but it's going to be hard to open her up, what with the street looking like the parking lot of a Wal-Mart on the day the government checks come out. Except with more BMW's and Jags and fewer Ford Fiestas.**

Oh ye of little faith and no corporal form. That's why the sidewalks in Manhattan are so wide. I jump the Bentley up on the curb with just the slightest scraping sound from the undercarriage.

 **Yep. Absolutely going to total it.**

Wow, is this baby smooth and powerful. I'm going to name her Jennifer. We swing a right then cut across traffic and make a left onto 1st Avenue. The traffic thins just a little and I speed up. That should have shook them.

 _Uhem!_

Fuck. How did they gain on us?

 _Well, they do have lights and a siren._

What the fuck New York? Since when do you get out of the way for emergency vehicles? Okay, this will do the trick. I lock up the emergency brake and, oh so smoothly, glide into a bootlegger slide.

 _Wasn't that smooth._

 **I think you may have just killed your new girlfriend.**

She's fine. She's a superhero and what-not. Now, with the traffic cleared I mash on the accelerator and Jennifer leaps forward faster than Big Bertha to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Maybe I should have named her Ashley.

 **Hey, Joie Chitwood,** (A/N: google him), **you're headed right for them.**

That's the plan.

 _As plans go, that's not a good one._

Sure it is. They'll flinch.

 _They're not flinching. They're not flinching!_

 **Well, I'm going to win my bet.**

They flinch... but just a bit later than I anticipated, and there's a slight contact between the left fender of the Bentley and the nose of the lead van as we both lock up the breaks and skid. Fortunately the Bentley is built like a tank and the damage is minimal.

 **Isn't that what the captain of the Titanic said?**

I'm out quick and crouched down behind the car, Desert Eagle in hand, checking the clip.

 _Don't bother to check it. You've only got six bullets._

 **He's not going to do that cheesy "count 'em down" shtick again, is he?**

Fuck that movie shit. I've got a better idea.

"Hey Wade," calls Taskmaster, "where's the girl."

"Oh hi, Tasky. What girl ya lookin' for?"

"You know perfectly well 'what girl'. Jessica Cage"

"Shew! What a relief. I thought you were looking for Sandy and I didn't want to tell you she's had her head in my lap for that last ten blocks."

"Fuck you Wade. You know that shit doesn't work on me. Now tell me where Jessica is and we can all go about our business."

Now the thing about Tasky is he's smart. Not like Hank Pym, Bruce Banner braniac smart. He's merc-smart. And he's got this thing where he can internalize anyone's fighting style and copy it or counter it. Anyone but me, that is. Seems he can't anticipate my moves since even I can't anticipate my moves.

 _Because you're an idiot savant; the Rainman of mercenaries._

Aw, thanks. I can tell by his voice that he's edging up to the rear of the car and, since he's smart, he's got a couple of schmoes in front of him to take any stray shots I might fire his way.

"I dumped her back at the apartment building. Did you check there?"

"Of course we did. If you don't have her then why are you running? Why are you involved anyway? Cap isn't going to stay hands-off on you if you start fucking things up."

"I have to get to the Bronx Zoo early. I hear watching the wildebeests wake up is a life changing experience."

 _Sometimes the things that come out of your mouth just make no damn sense._

 **I swear that wasn't me.**

"That's the point."

"What's the point, Wade. Are you even still talking to …."

Now. I leap forward and barrel-roll, coming up with my desert eagle alongside the first van and what do I see. " _I see a band of HYDRA goons a comin' after me_. " Three head shots drop the first of them, I quick pivot toward the van and the dumbass driver has his window rolled down so he can hear what's going on. That earns him a head shot. Cap may have improved the training of these jerks but they still fall like raindrops when the fight starts. Two more quick shots down the side of the van drives the rest of these muppets for cover. I make a dash toward the first two unalived cretins and scoop up their weapons. I want their extra ammo too, but I don't have time to take it off them so I grab the first one by the collar and drag him after me as I dive behind a conveniently abandoned civilian car. Damn, these guys get the best toys.

"Hey Tasky," I call out, "You got a crayon on you? I want to write 'Ho Ho Ho, now I have a Sig Sauer MCX and a grenade launcher on this guy's chest."

Nothing. That means Tasky is either sneaking up on me and I can't hear him or he's not sure what to do now. All they have to do is flank me and I'll have to murderize all of them while taking massive injuries. But he may be thinking that he's taking casualties for nothing since I don't have the girl with me. The irony is all he has to do is get in the car and drive her away. But he doesn't believe that, since I certainly wouldn't abandon the car if she was it in, now would I? Time to press the point.

" _One little, two little three little dead HYDRA fools_. How many of these cabbage patch kids do you think you can lose before Cap relieves you of command and puts a real merc in charge, like Paste Pot Pete?"

There's a pause and suddenly its as quiet as I've ever heard a New York street.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Tasky calls and there's a pleading quality in his voice that makes me giggle. "If you don't have her why are you fighting us?"

"Well, it's like this Task-masterbater, I made it very damn clear that I want to be left the fuck alone or else all your shiny helecarriers go boom. Did you think I was joking? I did the chick a solid and earned what was coming to me last night, if you know what I mean. Now I'm done. But I'm also done with you. If you don't pull back I'm going to gak every last one of these poor sons-of-bitches and blow the fuck out of your flying RV's."

Another pause.

"Pull back," Tasky shouts in his command voice and I can almost smell the relief wafting off the HYDRA shits.

"Wade," Tasky calls to me, "See that you stay out of this. It's too big for you now." Then to his goons, "Disable the car."

Oh fuck, no! As I hear automatic weapons fire hit the Bentley. I want to jump out and charge the motherfuckers but in a rare moment of self-restraint I know that if I do it will tell Tasky that the girl, that Jessica, is in the car. I also know that its too late. The gunfire is already fading. So I sit on my useless ass behind the car and wait for them to leave like a fucking coward.

 _Wade?_

Not now.

 _Wade? You don't control everything. Sometimes shit goes sideways._

Fuck off. It was my responsibility. I told her I'd keep her safe.

 **Hey, look on the bright side; maybe she's not dead, just severely, horribly injured.**

I fucking hate both you guys.

 **Well duh. We're you and you obviously hate yourself.**

 _The thing is, you were in an impossible situation and you analyzed it correctly._

 **Ha! You said analyzed.**

 _You need to shut up. The only thing jumping out would have done was to get yourself an extra ten pounds of lead and get the girl captured if she wasn't already dead. Do you think she would rather be in the hands of HYDRA to be brain-fucked the way you've been so many times. Is that what you want for anyone else._

Alive means a chance. Dead means none.

 _That's right. And since you seem intent on remaining alive no matter what, it means you always have a chance to set things right. So use it. They're pulling out. Go check on her and, if she's alive get her out. If she's not, go get her daughter._

I hate it when these guys are right. Maybe I should have come up with a better plan but I didn't. Now I have to look at the situation as it is. And this one thing I know: if one more person has been harmed on my watch, HYDRA is going to be all out of heads when I'm done slicing them off.

I stand up as the last van disappears around the corner. A quick look around tells me they didn't leave anyone behind to check on me. That seems off. Tasky should be smarter than that. Seems like my helecarrier threat is still carrying weight. Then I look at the car. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. The front end looks like it's been put through a meat grinder. Jennifer ain't never going to be beautiful again. The rear looks relatively untouched but there are some stray bullet holes toward the rear passenger compartment. It would only take one to ricochet through the rear seats and into the trunk.

I want to run but I can't make my damn legs move faster than a slow stumble. What the fuck is the matter with me?

Then I hear it. Banging from the trunk. And suddenly I can move. I run to the rear of the car – and realize I have no way to get it open. I pull out my phone but like I suspected, all the damage destroyed the car's computer and it won't work. I mash on the damn icon about forty-eleven times as the banging gets louder. Then it hits me.

"Hey Jessica, listen there should be a latch to pop the trunk from the inside!" I shout, leaning down to the rear of the car.

"I tried that, asshat!" comes the response and I can feel a smile starting. "It must have gotten jammed while you were turning me into a crash test dummy."

"I thought you had super strength. Can't you bust your way out?"

"Maybe, if I was the fucking Hulk. I don't have enough room to draw back."

"What about through the back seat?"

"I can't get to it."

"Okay, I got this. Hang on."

I don't know where I stand on the Marvel Strength Scale since it depends on which bozo is writing me, but for the purpose of this little tale it's somewhere in the neighborhood of Cap and the rest of the Supersoldiers. So it's a lot. But the problem is the car is so well crafted there's no place to get a finger under the trunk lid.

So I'm into the car and I rip out the back seats revealing the escape latch. All new US cars have them but I had no idea whether the Bentley did or not. And now I realize I didn't have to rip the seats out, since they would have folded down.

 **Hehehehe. Totaled.**

I pop the hatch and I'm staring at a delicious, and seemingly undamaged backside, clad in faded jeans. I chivalrously do not grab, fondle or take a bite of said backside, in spite of what Yellow might want.

 **Spoil-sport.**

Instead, I take her by the ankles and pull her legs through saying, "Watch your head."

With her legs free, Jessica wiggles through and I help her from the car. I stare her up and down, looking for wounds. I swear. She is visibly shaken but doesn't seem to be injured and I feel something release in my chest.

 **Maybe all that bacon has finally induced a coronary.**

"I am so sorry," I say, in a voice that is embarrassingly small. Jessica just stares at me and says nothing.

 **You think she's ruptured an aneurism from all the trauma?**

She's still staring at me but not in the eye. She's looking at my chest. Slowly, I look down, too.

 _How did that get there?_

One of my ribs is poking through my chest, dripping blood down my body and soaking the top of my jeans. Shit.

"Doesn't that hurt?" she says, her eyes not leaving my wound.

"Well it does now! Fuck! Shit!"

That gets her moving. "Let me look at it," she says, stepping forward and starting to bend down to inspect my thoracic remodeling.

"No time," I say and push the broken end of my rib back inside my chest. OH MOTERFUCK ME! That hurts. It's just possible that I whine a little and perhaps a manly grunt turns into the sob of a five-year-old girl. I cover it well, however, as I turn to look at the car.

"Look how they massacred my girl," I wheeze out, in a masterful Marlon Brando, Godfather impression.

 _That's what that was?_

"We've got to get you out of here," Jessica says putting an arm around me gingerly. "Maybe we can steal another car."

"Nope. New plan," I say. "We're going to hoof it about six block to the Lexington Avenue Tunnel. We need to get underground."

"Can you even make it that far?"

"No worries," I reply. "My handy-dandy healing factor is already kicking in. Come on, I'm going introduce you to the Monster Metropolis."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

 _Girl, you know I want your love  
Your love was handmade for somebody like me  
Come on now, follow my lead  
I may be crazy, don't mind me _

Ah shit. Hey Deadpool! Deadpool!

 **He can't hear you dipshit.**

 _Can't you see he's got his headphones on?_

Wait, what are you guys still doing here? You were supposed to be gone after the last chapter. **.**

 _See, Wade's been like this ever since you decided to turn this story into a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel. So Yellow and I decided to have a little talk with you during this interlude._

 **Yeah, we're goin' a make you an offer you can't refuse, see.**

Uh, right. So let me get this straight, you guys are worried about Deadpool and you're going to threaten me to, what, make this turn out good for him? Let him get the girl? What exactly are you planning to do to me if I don't, seeing as how you're just figments of his shattered psyche?

 _You don't get it, do you? We're not just in Wade's head; we're in your head. How would you like to start having four-way conversations in the middle of your day job? How about when you're trying to talk to some girl?_

 **If he ever gets off his dead ass and talks to a girl.**

 _I see a spiffy tailored jacket with wrap-around sleeves in your future._

Um, I hadn't considered that. So what do you want? I'm too far into it to stop now. Shit, the last time I stopped in the middle of a novel it drove me nuts for ten years until I finished it.

 _We get it. We just want you to have an understanding of the effect of your writing on your characters. If this thing with the girl goes pear-shaped it's really going to fuck Wade up._

 **Again.**

But you're all just fictional. No offense. How can this fanfic have any effect one way or another. It's not like it's going to be adopted into canon. When I'm done it's over.

 _Shit, I thought you'd read Heinlein. Every new story creates a new branch of reality. That branch goes on and on, whether the author continues the series or not, creating a new timeline. It's_ _The Cat Who Walks Through Walls_ _. Wherever you leave off, there we are and we have to go on from there._

But Deadpool goes on about all the stuff that happened in other stories, even stuff that eventually got retconed. If this is a separate Deadpool, living in a reality that I just created, how does he even know that stuff?

 _He's the fucking cat. He doesn't just break the forth wall, he walks through it. He's everywhere an author puts him and he has to live with all the shit they put him through. Just think about that. Mother died of cancer – no she didn't, he burned her to death. Joined the army at seventeen – no he didn't, he was a school teacher and saw his first wife murdered by T-Ray. No, wait, all that shit happened and he has to deal with all of it. Now you're dumping more shit on him. We just want you to take that into consideration as you complete this little magnum opus._

I can't promise how this is going to turn out. I've got a vague ending in mind but I won't know for sure until I get there. That's just how it is. I don't actually know until I write the scene and I see what feels right. But I'll promise this, I'll think about where what I write puts Deadpool when it's over. Best I can do.

 _I guess that will have to be enough then. Just look at the poor dope over there, singing along with that sappy Brit, Ed Sheeran._

I like that song, _The Shape of You_.

 **Of course you do, nimrod. He found it in your head.**

You mean one of the voices in my head all these years has been Deadpool?

 _Yeah, suck on that one a while._

Okay, well I gotta go see if my medical covers psychotherapy. Talk to you later. Probably.

 **Hehehehe. I think he bought it.**

I don't actually get to see the the Monster Metropolis. Deadpool muttered something about the author not being able to afford any more monsters. We get into the service area of the Lexington Avenue Tunnel and Deadpool stops at a plain gray metal door in the wall. It's completely nondescript and unmarked. He knocks out "Shave and a Haircut" and waits.

Nothing.

"Guess they changed the code," he says. Then he starts banging on the door like a maniac and shouting, "Open the motherfucking door or I'm going to blast it to fucking smithereens!"

The door opens almost immediately and, for a second, I think I'm looking at Nightcrawler. I saw him a couple of times at the X-Mansion when Trish took me there. But then I realize he looks different. He's still got the blue skin, pointed ears and forked tail along with three-fingered hands, but he looks different. He looks sick. His skin is covered in healing blisters. On a closer look, his features seem more rounded than I remember and his eyes look vaguely Asian.

"Deadpool!" Nightcrawler shouts in a thick accent. Definitively Asian. Then he clasps the merc in a bear hug.

"Okay, okay. Sheesh," Deadpool says, but he's hugging the other guy back. Then he backs off and administers a bro-hug. You know the one guys do when they don't want anyone to think they've ever had a homoerotic thought. One arm around the back, with a couple of quick pats while they bump chests. Deadpool is at least a foot and a half taller so it looks way awkward.

"Deadpool, it is so good to see you my friend. With all the craziness on the surface, I have been worried about you. We heard you had left the service of HYDRA and were afraid you had been killed."

"Ha! As if," Deadpool turns to me and makes the introduction. "Kim, this lovely lady is Jessica Jones, er Cage, I guess. Jess, this is Kim, he's a fauX-Man."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jones. Cage?" says the little blue guy.

"Um, lets go with Jones. Good to meet you too, Kim."

Then to Deadpool he says, "You know we do not like the term fauX-Men. It makes it sound as if we are impostors. We are just ourselves."

"Yeah, sure. I get it. But it saves on the backstory." Deadpool turns back to me and says with a sigh, "Kim and his buddies are clones of me and a bunch of the X-Kids, created by a shit named Butler for that little North Korean Eric Cartman knockoff. I got the missus to give them sanctuary in the MM before the Monster Mash went down." Then turning back to Kim, he says, "I guess you guys stayed on."

Kim begins to tell Deadpool about developments since he left but I'm not really listening. I'm thinking about something Deadpool said. He called me Jess when he introduced me. There was something in that. Something affectionate, or possessive, or maybe both. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

First off, the only other person who calls me "Jess" is Trish. It's kind of comforting to think that someone else might have my back the way she does. But how do I feel about Deadpool being that other person? Well, it probably says something that I still call him, and think of him, as Deadpool. I know his name is Wade but I haven't called him that. Is that because I don't like him or is it because my natural inclination is to keep people at a distance. I've only had three close relationships that have lasted and I didn't plan any of them. I was thrown together with Trish and Carol, and lets be honest, if they weren't both stubborn as mules they would have dumped me years ago.

And Luke... Yeah, Luke. He was a one-night-stand that turned into a relationship because of Danni. I did fall in love with him, eventually. Hell, what's not to love in a gorgeous alpha-male superhero. But it happened because we were bound together by our child. We had some common interests, aside from the superheroing, I guess. But I really can't think of any right now. When I'm with Luke I feel like I'm only a part of myself, not free to be the foul-mouthed, fucked up, whole of me. When I'd express an interest for the things I liked before we met, like goofy, over-the-top 80's movies or rock music, he'd suggest it was time for me to visit Trish and have a "girls' night". Then he'd go hang with Danny Rand or some of his friends from Harlem.

He never introduced me to his friends either, other than Danny. Maybe that says something as well. Was he ashamed of the white chick he knocked up and had to marry. I don't know. Probably not. But Luke never communicated with me one way or another and he never made me a full part of his life. To be fair, I didn't make him a part of my life much either. But hell, I didn't have any close friends besides Trish and Carol.

So why did Dead...no Wade. Why did Wade calling me Jess spark this metal dialogue. Maybe I really do need therapy. I guess it's because it's so obvious that he's reaching out to make a connection and it scares me. It always does, but maybe it's time I actually thought about how I react. My first instinct was to dump this guy who's trying to help me and who hasn't been anything but sweet, in a schizophrenic, slightly creepy, way.

I catch snippets of the conversation and I can tell there is a problem with us traveling through the Monster Metropolis. Something about Wade's ex having ordered him banished as her last command before abdicating. This should cause me a shitload of concern but somehow I know Wade will work it out and I return to my mental reverie.

Maybe that's what these feelings...ugh, feelings...about Wade come down to. I believe he will work it out because he's stubborn like Carol and Trish and he's doing it for me. He won't let me down. But why? Why won't he let me down? He has no good reason to be doing this and every reason to dump me. He should have turned me over. It's the smart play. He could buy himself some good will from the New World Order. Instead he bought himself a fuck ton of trouble. And not just for himself. It's clear he has others he cares about. Why would he put them at risk. He mentioned family, a daughter. Would I put Danni at risk for him? Hell no. Well, no I wouldn't, but I'd want to help. And maybe, if I knew a fight was inevitable, I'd go ahead and start it, if I could figure out how to get an edge. Maybe he thinks I'm his edge. But shit, he's seen about my whole repertoire and it's really not a lot against the likes of HYDRA.

He's had to drag me out of one scrape after another since he met me. What does he think I can do for him in this situation? Ahh! There's the cynic in me again. Maybe it's not what I can do for him but his need to do something for someone else. Maybe that's what I've sensed in his voice a couple of times; that need for someone to hold on to. And he seems to think I'm hot. Which really does show he's crazy, since I've looked like a strung-out tweaker since I met him. I mean, I know I'm not ugly but I don't really stand out on my best day, which this is not. This Shikla is a succubus, so I'm guessing she's way hot. And Carol, who's a world-class gossip by the way, once mentioned he had a thing with Psylocke and damn. I'm way straight and even I might switch teams for her. I don't know who else he's been with but, based on those two, I don't seem like his type.

And now I'm wondering if I'm his type? What the shit is wrong with me? I'm not sixteen wondering if the cute guy will ask me to the dance. I'm in a fight for my life and maybe my daughter's life. I've got to get it together. I've already decided I can trust Wade, whatever his feelings for me may be or mine for him. Now I have to figure out what we're going to do about keeping my daughter safe.

First we get to this safe house Wade has set up, then we get to Connecticut. Then we go take on HYDRA and bust Danni out. If all that goes well, Danni and I have to disappear. I'll have time for self analysis of my relationship issues then. Maybe.

So, first...wait, what? I pick up another bit of the conversation.

"I'm sorry," I say, "Could you repeat the last couple of sentences?"

"Oh, you're back with us," says Wade, cheerfully. "I didn't think you were listening. You were off in your own little world there."

"Yeah I was. Sorry Kim. I didn't mean to be rude but I have a lot to think about and I haven't had a lot of time to do it."

"Is no worries, as my friend Wade says," replies Kim. "What is it you wanted us to repeat?"

"You said something about not being able to believe Steve Rogers could be evil because he was so nice to you and your friends..."

"Yes, I said it is almost impossible to believe that the leader of HYDRA is the same man who stood off the whole North Korean army to try to save the families of myself and my comrades."

"And I said he's not. That was the old wrinkly Cap, who still ate Cheerios for breakfast every day and walked three blocks out of his way to help little old ladies across the street. But now that I'm thinking about it, maybe he was just doing it so he could hit on them."

Another tumbler falls into place and I think I'm starting to see what this is about but there's no time to go into it now.

"Okay, that may be something but I have to think about it some more. We'll talk about it later."

Deadpool cocks his head to the side like a curious dog, then shrugs.

"So, to catch you up," he says to me, "Kim was informing me that I am now persona non grande around hear and they don't want to let us through."

"Wade, that is not a fair summary of what I was telling you," says Kim, sounding a bit hurt. "I explained that we are now governed by an elected council, of which I am a member, and the first rule put in place was that all Shikla's orders are to remain in effect until specifically rescinded or modified by a vote of the Council. It was a necessary step to insure that anarchy did not reign in the Metropolis. I'm sure you can imagine the trouble that might have come from so many, er, free thinkers having a free hand to do whatever they pleased until order could be put into place."

Well gee, Kim," Deadpool says, also sounding hurt, "You might have started with something important, like say, restoring the visiting privileges of good ol' Deadpool. You know, the guy who saved your sorry butts and set you up down here."

Kim looks a little uncomfortable but says, "I'm sorry, Wade. We were concerned with trivialities like making sure there were rules to prevent certain of our citizens from going to the surface and snacking on the normals on a regular basis. And, I'm not certain how a vote to overturn your banishment would have come out, to be frank. There is a wide divergence of opinion when it comes to you down here. My comrades and I love you as a brother, of course. Many of the original citizens of the Metropolis do, as well. Certain others, however, do not look so kindly on you. Werewolf by Night, in particular, seems to hold some grudge."

"Geeze, cut a mangy fleabag's head off for boinkin' your old lady and he never gets over it," Wade replies.

Wow, I'm really starting to not like this Shikla bitch. It must show on my face and Wade gives a sardonic shrug.

"Succubus," he says. "It was part of the package." To Kim he says, "Look old pal, me and the lady have to go through. I wanna do it without bloodshed, but if I have to ginsu a bunch of monsters on the way, I'm gonna do it. You and the rest of the Cancer Corps need to disappear and lay low until we're gone."

"You misunderstand me, my friend," says Kim. "I cannot let you through, as I swore an oath. But I can still aid you. I have been working on my powers. I can teleport you where you need to go. I can get you to any location I have seen before or anywhere in my line of sight. Just like the _real_ Nightcrawler, no?"

Kim smiles, showing pointed teeth and his look is both proud and self-deprecating. I can see tension leaving Wade's body and he is silent for a moment.

"Okay Kim, sorry I doubted you. We need to get to Red Hook in Brooklyn. How close can you get us?"

Kim's smile widens. "How does the big IKEA store on Halleck Street sound?"

"IKEA?" I ask, puzzled by the mundane reference point.

"Of course," says Kim. "The accommodations down here were a bit...antiquated. We had to do some redecorating."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

 _I'm so tired of this dumb fic, it's gone on way too long_

 _Like a worn-out recording, of a Manilow song_

 _So while you sat there pecking, I penned this masterpiece instead_

 _And with my old trusty crayon, I wrote down in red_

 _If you like pain in your colon, and getting smacked with a chain_

 _If you're not going to stop it, I'm going to stomp out your brain_

 _If you don't write me some hot sex, I'll fold you up like a crepe_

 _I'll hunt you down and kill you, and you'll never escape_

Oh, are we back to this again? Come on, you're making some real progress with her. Didn't you read the last chapter?

Hey, I just need you to move this along. I'm a busy man. I've like a gazillion titles in print right now and my new movie just started filming.

Yeah, and Danny Glover is working on your new animated series. Who knew being a whiny little bitch could be so rewarding?

It's Donald Glover. And I am not a whiny bitch.

Are too.

Am not.

Are too.

Shut the fuck up. Have you got anything good for me in this chapter or not?

You'll just have to read and see.

Being BAMFED (Wade's term) is an odd experience. One second I'm standing in a tunnel beneath a subway line and the next Kim grabs each of us around the waist and then we're all standing in a parking lot next to a huge IKEA store, miles away. In between, I had the momentary impression of a flash of bluish light. It's more than just a little disorienting and my legs feel a bit wobbly.

Kim turns to Wade and says, "If you point me in the right direction I can get you there in a few seconds in a series of jumps."

"That's alright Kim," Wade replies. "It's only a few blocks and the lady looks a bit green from the last BAMF. Either she's a little queasy or she's about to go Hulk on us. Either way, I appreciate this and, again, I'm sorry I doubted you."

"That is quite alright. I understand that the situation is stressful. Please let us know when you need our aid and we will be ready for the fight."

"No, Kim," says Wade, "You've done enough. It's best you stay out of this one."

"Do not be foolish my friend. You stood with us to protect our families. The least we can do is stand with you to protect the child of your lady friend. Besides, the others have been working on their powers as well. So-ra, in particular has become quite adept and manipulating weather. A few good lightening strikes might come in handy in this fight."

"I'll think about it Kim, but I still hope to keep this from becoming an all out slug fest. I'm thinking more a quick snatch and grab. But we'll see."

"Then so long for now. Ms. Jones, it was so nice to meet you. I can see why you have captured Wade's heart."

"Wait, what now..." I begin, but Kim is gone in a puff of blue light. I turn to Wade but he doesn't meet my eyes.

"Let's get a move on before Big Brother gets a sniff of us. Not many surveillance cameras around here but keep your face down just in case. We got to get a couple of blocks north. Then we can relax for a few minutes and collect our thoughts." Then, more to himself than to me, he adds, "Won't that be fun."

Wade's safe house is in an abandoned factory building but it's not nearly as gross as I expected. I guess I figured on a lot of pizza boxes and porno mags piled on top of furniture stolen from frat houses. Instead, it's clean, if a little dusty and sparsely furnished. The space is open except for a wall with several doors which seems to be a recent renovation. There's a sitting area with a sofa, chair and a coffee table and a full kitchen behind a counter.

Wade walks to the kitchen and pulls a beer from the fridge then holds it up looking to me.

I start to tell him it's too early for me but who the hell am I kidding. So I nod and say, "Bring me one."

He comes up beside me and hands me the beer as I eye the furniture.

"Hey, IKEA is two blocks away."

"Who'd you get to put it together for you?" I ask.

"You wouldn't believe me," he replies and plops down on the sofa placing his feet up on the coffee table.

I do likewise and take a long swig of my beer. We sit in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes. "So, what did you figure out?" Wade asks, breaking the silence.

"I'm not sure. I've got pieces but I don't know how they're connected and I don't know what they mean."

"So lay it out for me. I may not be the sharpest monkey in the barrel but occasionally I turn up a blind acorn and maybe saying it out loud will help you piece it together."

I eye Wade. I'm on to him now. He may be crazy. Hell, he's as crazy as a bag of ferrets. But he's plenty smart.

"Several years ago I came into possession of a video tape of Steve Rogers changing into his Cap uniform."

"Came into possession of?" Wade interrupts.

"I was on a case," I say.

"So you took the video yourself?" he asks.

"Yeah, I took it myself. I was hired by a woman who wanted me to find out if her sister was alright. So I staked out the sister's apartment and low and behold, who shows up but Steve Rogers, who seems to have a thing with the woman. I didn't know who he was at the time but it sure seemed like the woman was dating up in the world. Then, almost as soon as they get in her apartment, he gets a page and splits. Next thing I know he's on the roof changing into his Captain America costume.

"So, I've got this tape and I'm freaking the fuck out because, shit, it's Captain Fucking America, right? This is before the reveal when everyone learned his identity, so it was a big deal, something a lot of people would kill for. It couldn't be a coincidence and it wasn't. Next the client disappears and Cap's girlfriend is murdered."

I look over at Wade and I seem to have his full attention. He's facing me, stock still. Of course, he could be asleep under the mask. How would I know? But it feels useful to say all this out loud, so I go on.

"So I eventually track down the client and it turns out she works for some lawyers who hired her to hire me. She's a cut-out so, of course, she ends up dead, as well. But I didn't know that for a few weeks. Eventually, I harassed and bullied my way up the trail until I found the money man who was manipulating the whole situation. The grand scheme was that they thought I, a broke, drunk ex-superhero PI, would sell the tape to the tabloids and out Captain America myself and they wanted it done because of his ties to the President who they wanted to beat in the next election. They wanted a scandal to smear Captain America and, indirectly, the President. The guy told me all of this face to face, seconds before a bunch of SHIELD helicopters swooped in and blasted him to fucking bits. Seems SHIELD had put a bug on me and were listening in."

"Damn," says Wade, "You must have been scared as shit. I mean, I'm too crazy to get scared and I might have puckered just a little. Why didn't you get some help?"

"I tried," I say. "The Avengers were off saving the planet or something, so Carol Danvers wasn't available. She's a friend by the way. Hellcat was gone too, and I didn't have anyone else to turn to." Saying this reminds me of how alone I felt and how I had a similar feeling before running into Wade.

"Weren't you and Lukiepoo an item back then? Where was he?"

Why did he ask that? I don't want to get into that. It's another embarrassing memory in a life filled with them but now that he's brought it up I won't be rid of it until it's out there.

"Luke and I had just started seeing each other. I showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night freaking out and he had a girl there. Not like that was a big deal. We weren't exclusive or anything. But he shut the door on me. He did help out later. He sent Matt Murdock to help me when I got brought in for questioning by the cops."

"Well that's a big fucking deal. He got his pal Daredevil to walk you out of a police questioning. He's a regular knight in an old sweatshirt that one. I can see why you fell for him."

"Are we really going to talk ex's now?" I ask, more than a little put off, mostly by the fact that he's right. Luke was a shit to me. I know he didn't owe me, but you'd think he'd have wanted to do better by me. Not because we'd had sex but because we'd been friends before we had sex. Shit. Time to think about that later. Wade raises his hands in a surrender gesture. Oh yeah.

"And how do you know that Matt Murdock is...was...Daredevil?"

"I was hired to gak him a couple of times."

He says it calm, like it's no big deal. Shit. It's too easy to forget what he is.

"Anyway," I say, moving on, "The whole thing never made any sense to me. There were too many holes in the plan. How did they know I would stake out the sister at just the right time? Why would they go to the trouble of setting me up to do it when they could have taken it themselves and outed the tape anonymously? Who the hell was the woman, anyway? When I gave the tape to Steve Rogers he seemed sad about her but not like he would have been if a lover had been killed because of him. It just didn't feel right.

"Then life happened. There was Luke and Danni and Avengers and I forgot about it. But now I'm starting to think it's somehow connected to what's going on now. When you said he's not the same Captain America that went to North Korea with you it triggered a thought. The Steve Rogers I met was different but I'm not sure how. It's something subtle but I'm sure of it. I'd like to go on the internet and look up old pictures of Captain America but I'm afraid they could track it."

"Probably not a good idea until we get to a secured computer. I got a couple they can't track but the closest one is back in Manhattan. Let's put that on the back burner. So when did the video tape stuff happen?"

"It was 2001...no, 2002, must have been January." I don't tell Wade I know because it was just a week or so after Luke and I had sex and a little less than nine months before Danni was born.

"What kind of camera?"

"What now? You mean the brand?"

"Not exactly. Was it new? Did it use full size tapes or those little ones you needed an adapter for?"

"It was new. A JVC or Panasonic, I think, and it used mini-cassettes. Why is that important?" I can tell Wade is grinning under the mask.

"Because, my little film-making Cecil B. DaBomb, in 2001 they started making those cameras that recorded on mini-cassettes. To get that much video time on a tape that small they invented and new codec and changed the way it was recorded to the tape. Did the camera have a screen where you could watch what you had just recorded?"

"Yeah, but it was really small and the quality sucked."

"That's right. The quality got enhanced when it was recorded over onto the tape. What you were watching on the small screen was the raw data recorded on the camera."

"Are you telling me there is still a copy of that video on my old camera?"

"Maybe. Depends on how much you used it after that. The memory wasn't all that large and if it was recorded over there's probably no way to get it back. Not sure about that."

"How the fuck do you know all this stuff?"

"Hey, I've been hired to do surveillance, too. And I may have occasionally recorded some things for my own personal viewing pleasure. So where's the camera?"

I think for a minute. I don't remember ever getting rid of it but I quit the PI business before Danni was born and I bought new equipment when I reopened my shop.

"It's in Connecticut," I say in a resigned tone. I was beginning to think I wouldn't have to go after all. I really don't want to.

"Goody, road trip. I call driver! Can we stop at a gas station and get some Cornuts and a 96 oz. fountain drink?"

One of the doors in Wade's safe house opens into a small but neat bathroom where he pulls out clean towels and small bottles of shampoo and body wash (all stolen from the St. Regis Hotel, to judge by the monogram and labels). I take advantage of the opportunity to rinse off the smell of the morning's adventures. I exit the shower stall dreading the reek of my filthy clothes only to find them replaced with clean garments. I note that my underwear is still where I dropped it, however. The new clothes seem like they may be a bit large but close enough, except for the bra, which is a size holy shit. I leave it and go with my own. The rest is okay, jeans and a dark green sweater.

I go into the open area to find Wade inside another of the rooms, presumably his bedroom, busily stuffing things under his bed. This room looks more like what I was expecting. The bed is unmade and dirty clothes are still piled everywhere in spite of his obvious efforts. A crew sock, which may once have been white, dangles from the ceiling light. Beer bottles and paper plates are strewn about and there isn't enough Fabreez in the world to eliminate that single man smell. He jumps when he realizes I'm standing there, giving whatever he was hiding under the bed one last shove.

"My that was quick. You didn't forget to wash behind your ears did you? Let me see."

He makes to look under my hair but I knock his hand away. "Stop that! You want to catch a shower too before we get started?"

He ducks his head to sniff near his armpit. "Yeah, I wouldn't want to commit a social faux pas since we're going to the suburbs. First I need to get you set up. Come over here."

He leads me to a walk-in closet, pushes aside about ten of his costumes on hangers and pushes gently against the back wall which opens smoothly. Overhead lights come on revealing an armory to make John Wick orgasm. Every type of assault rifle I've ever heard of and some I haven't line one wall. A second holds swords of all types. Many are katanas but I also recognize wakazashi, tanto and dadao swords from training with Danny Rand. Others are familiar but I don't know the correct names. Along side are more modern military cutlery like K-bars. The third wall holds handguns above a rack of shotguns. A work station sits in the middle with whet stones and polishing clothes as well as reloading equipment for shells. I draw in a breath and let out a low whistle.

"Ain't they lovely," chimes Wade with obvious pride. "Pick out what you like but my advice is to stay with what you're familiar with. This ain't no training mission."

I walk over to the wall of handguns and pick out a blued steel Colt Combat Commander and a matte black Glock 19, both in 9mm. I check the chambers, ejecting a shell from each, and then drop the magazines from each before checking the action. As I hoped, the Glock has the thirty-three round mag. I reassemble both, chambering rounds, then drop the mags again to reinsert the last shells. I'm not really a gun nut but it's an occupational necessity to be familiar with them. I look up and Wade is staring at me, those big white eyes even larger than normal. He makes a heart with his fingers and places it over his chest.

"Okay, then," he says. I'll just let you browse a bit while I get cleaned up. But first there's one more little dohicky I want you to try out." He leads me out of the armory, through the closet and into the bedroom where he stands me in front of a full length mirror behind the door.

"Put this on," he says, handing me a small silver metal box with with a black glass panel and a clip on the back. I look at it.

"Just clip it on under your sweater. If you need any help..."

"Thanks, I'll manage," I deadpan.

He makes a show of turning around while I slip my hand under my sweater and clip the box to my bra.

"I didn't peek while you were in the shower, btw," Wade says while looking away. I look up to notice that he's staring at me in the mirror. I smack him in the back of the head, just to let him know I caught him.

"Hey! Sheesh, super-strength, remember." He rubs the back of his head then hands me the little triangular gizmo.

"Feel the little buttons on the side?" he says and I run a finger over the side of the device. I nod.

"The female images are on the side where I put the little piece of tape."

I turn it over and there is a piece of tape along one edge. On a closer look, it appears to be part of a Hello Kitty band-aid.

"Press that button to change the image, then the one on the front to set it and you got yourself a makeover. Go ahead, try it."

"Just why do I need this?" I ask.

"Cause I lied about drivin'. I got shotgun. Literally. But if we see trouble coming ahead of time, I'm out of the car and you go on by yourself. I'll deal with whatever we run into and catch up. This should get you past any regular road checks.

"Also, I've been thinking. I know, hard to believe, right? But it occurred to me that we need to wait a few more hours before heading out. If we wait and join the herd leaving NYC at rush hour, even the HYDRA Gestapo won't be able to stop every car. Worst case, they'll monitor the bridges and tunnels and take a glance in the cars stopped in traffic."

I don't want to wait. I don't want to hang around here while someone else has my baby. Still, I'm pretty sure they won't hurt her. Luke can cause a lot of damage when he's pissed off and that would piss him off. Also, they want to use her for leverage for some reason. That means keeping her alive and well until they get their hands on me. I have to admit the plan makes sense.

"So what do we do in the meantime?"

"You eat and rest. Get some sleep, if you can. This may be a long night. I'm going to try to make contact with a couple of sources and see if I can get any more info on what's going on at the HYDRA summer camp and what they want with you. Now try the image inducer out. I want to make sure you know how to use it."

I press the side button when something else pops into my head. "Why do you have female images on here and why should I only use the females?"

"It's handy for getting into the women's locker room at the gym," Wade says, "And some other places I have to go professionally where it's easier to get in as a woman than as a spandex clad killing machine with an incredible ass. As for using only the female images, it has to do with natural body movements. Standing still you could pull off any of them. But men and women move differently, as I well know. If I use a female image it tends to flicker as it compensates for the differences. Now quit stalling and try it. It ain't going to bite."

I press the button and feel no sensation at all. There's no flash of light, no buzz of electricity. Nothing. I look at the mirror – and damn. Looking back at me is a stunning blue skinned creature with a wide, sensuous mouth, white Farah hair and glowing red eyes.

I turn slowly to look at Wade. I'm pretty sure he isn't breathing. "I...I'm not sure this is the inconspicuous look I'm going for." I say. Wade says nothing for a long moment then seems to shake himself.

"I forgot that one was on there," he says in a small voice. "Yeah, we can probably skip that one. There are a few more that won't be any good. You press the side button twice to set the next one, three times for the one after that and so on. We'll just have to go through them until we find a couple that work." His voice is resigned and it is clear that the woman who's likeness I now wear was someone important to him. I want to ask but his tone of voice make it clear that it's painful for him.

I take a breath then press the button twice, then the center button. The image in the mirror changes instantaneously to that of a large blond beauty in skin-tight jeans and a western shirt straining at the buttons over a ridiculously enhanced chest. I look over at Wade and I can tell he's grinning under the mask.

"That's not exactly inconspicuous either," he says, in a more relaxed tone. "But I doubt she's on the HYDRA watch list. I'm pretty sure she's back in Texas, laying low. Keep that one in mind."

Next I become a raven haired goddess with purplish skin and blood red lips, wearing a see-through black lace body stocking. I feel embarrassed, even though the skin on display is not mine. Again, Wade seems maudlin.

"That's the ex," he says. "Probably not an option."

Next, I become a tall red-haired beauty with emerald green eyes, wearing a green and yellow X-man costume, complete with a cape. Holy crap this girl is gorgeous. Like Maureen O'Hara, turned up to eleven. (A/N: If you have to google her, I weep for your generation).

"Nope," says Wade, "They're probably looking for her, even though she's some kind of death goddess now."

Again, I want to ask but don't and go on to the next, getting more and more uncomfortable. Another push of two buttons and I'm a dark-haired, dark-skinned girl of twenty-five or so, with big eyes and a cute nose. Pretty but not unusual. I look at Wade expectantly to find he's gone rigid again. He recovers more quickly this time.

"Yeah, that one works." His voice is flat now. "Let's find one more."

The next one is Psylocke and I shake my head and change it without looking to Wade. I see the pattern here.

Next, I'm looking at a living skeleton. Well, if a skeleton could have the body of a 1940's pin-up girl.

"Uhm, not sure that one is a good idea, either. She might get pissed, which would not be the best thing. You know, embodiment of death and what-not."

Now I'm Domino, dark hair, albescent skin, a black circle around the left eye and wearing a skin-tight black body suit.

"Petey!" Wade exclaims. "That's a really good look for you. You know, you've got the same ass."

"I'm glad you're being amused. By my count we've got one to work with and one more in a pinch. That enough?"

"No, there's at least one more we need to find. Keep going."

I shrug and sigh, hitting the buttons again. Ugh! A red and blue body suit and mask.

"Spiderman? Really?" I question. "You know he's a guy, right?"

"You sure?" Wade replies. "He's all lithe and androgynous. Could be a chick. In fact, at least a couple of them are girls. So, there."

"Yeah, but not this one. He's a guy. I went to high school with him."

Wade puts both hands to the sides of his face and I can tell his mouth is agape under the mask, like the Escher painting.

"You did not!" he exclaims.

"I did," I say. He wasn't Spiderman then." I think for a second. "Maybe he was and I just didn't know it. He was kind of geeky, but I sort of had a crush on him."

"You went to high school with Spiderman? Wow, you've held up well for a chick in her 70's."

"What? I graduated in the 90's"

"Ugh! Continuity!" Wade non sequiturs. "Whatever. So, you know Spidey's secret identity."

"You don't? Really? I thought everyone knew it by now."

"Sure I do. I mean, I'm pretty sure. Well...anyway, I think we can move on."

I do, and the next image I see doesn't fit the pattern at all. Blond and broad featured, I'm nearly six feet tall and large. Not fat, but well rounded. Well, fat by superhero standards, which are, admittedly, a poor body image for any woman. It's just that, other than her height, this person is so normal looking. I can't help myself.

"Who is she?" I ask quietly.

"Just someone who's life I fucked up along the way and who was better off without me."

"You loved them all." I want to snatch the words back out of the air as soon as they escape.

"No." A pause. "Some of them...maybe. Hell, I don't know. My memory is so fucked up I'm not even sure what my relationship was with some of them. In order to make modifications, my mental image of a person has to be clear enough to remember details without specific clothing or accessories, otherwise I'm stuck with what they were wearing when I formed the memory and the image isn't as clear as real life. So I must have been pretty close to them. You want to know something else fucked up? I don't have my daughter's mother on here. I don't have any clear picture of her in my head at all. I've seen some photos of her but they don't ring any bells. In my head, she's a girl I hooked up with once, in the 1970's. But Elle's only ten. How fucked up is that? Lukiepoo was there, I think. We run into him, maybe I'll ask him.

"Let's go with this one to start. Pretty sure no one is looking for her."

"Okay," I say. "What was her name?"

"Is. I think she's still alive. At least I didn't get her killed. Her name's Ilaney."

"Ilaney it is, then. Can you put something besides the cowgirl outfit on the other blond one?" I don't mention the cute brunette because of his reaction to seeing her and because the clothes she was wearing were appropriate to the setting.


End file.
